


Point of Divergence

by pongnosis



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alex Rider Big Bang, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2019-10-19 21:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17609255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pongnosis/pseuds/pongnosis
Summary: In one world, Cossack heard about Albert Bridge and looked the other way. In another, John Rider found a stray assassin on his doorstep. An AU told in snapshots for the Alex Rider Big Bang. Updates irregularly as real life allows.





	1. Part I: London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is based on a somewhat mutated version of this tumblr post: http://bakodo.tumblr.com/post/67880983469/i-just-want-an-au-where-alex-and-yassen-are. It ended up as a point-of-divergence fic rather than a complete AU, and there’s a lot of the prompt that didn’t fit into the fic, but that’s where it was born. 
> 
> The fic will have illustrations by the incredibly talented wolfern from ff.net! The way the fic ended up in parts means that the drawings will all show up in the second part but they’re absolutely gorgeous and I can’t wait to share them!

MI6 spent three months training John Rider for his undercover mission. It would be dangerous no matter what and everyone knew it, but it was at least as safe as anyone could manage. He didn’t have the traditional intelligence background that prior attempts by several other intelligence agencies had relied on, but SCORPIA had shown an unpleasant ability to hunt down those undercover agents in the past. John Rider was still unknown in the intelligence world, he had no official connection to MI6, he had the background SCORPIA wanted, and he had enough of a killer instinct to thrive with the organisation. He was the best bet MI6 had and they weren’t about to waste it.

Helen Rider was three months pregnant when John Rider decided that intelligence work could go bugger itself and told MI6 in no uncertain terms that they had six months to finish up their operation. 

_Or I’ll do it myself,_ he didn’t need to say. Hunter had already gained a reputation beyond MI6’s wildest expectations. He was not a potential rogue agent but he was also not the undercover soldier they had first sent into the lion’s den. 

Alexander John Rider was born a week overdue; enough time for his parents to get settled a little and the debriefings to be handled.

“He wanted his father there,” Helen told him afterwards, all exhausted smiles as she held the tiny miracle in her arms, and John felt his heart clench. For the woman who had stood by him through everything and the baby that had just become his world.

Whatever it took, he promised, he would keep them safe.

Ian, caught half a world away for another several weeks, called a florist and had flowers and a teddy bear delivered. 

Jones sent her congratulations. Blunt looked a little constipated.

The Rider family, newly expanded, prepared to move to France.

* * *

Ash visited two days later on their first evening home and looked like hell warmed over. John had expected it. For the kind of injuries Ash had survived, his recovery so far was impressive, but he still had months to go.

“Bloody hell,” Ash said when he arrived. “He already looks like his father. My condolences, Helen. We all hoped he would take after you.”

John flipped him off. “He’ll be a handsome devil, that’s what you mean.”

“A devil, all right. You’ll need this, that’s for sure.” Ash half-threw a bottle of quality scotch at him and handed Helen a large box of chocolates with somewhat more care. Alex stirred a little and yawned, half-asleep on his mother’s chest where she rested on the couch.

Ash settled down with slow, careful motions. He had been given a cane but had stubbornly ignored it. John would probably have done the same.

“Thank you,” Helen said. Dark, experienced eyes gave him a long look. “How are you, Ash?”

If John had asked, the answer would have been half-hearted. Ash had never been able to lie to Helen, though. It didn’t work with a nurse with her experience. He didn’t look that good to John. Tired. Pale. In pain, to those who knew him well enough to tell. It was a miracle he was even doing that well. Yassen had been vicious. Hunter was proud; John Rider was conflicted. Yassen had fought for his life and for Hunter. Everything considered, Ash was lucky to be alive.

Ash grimaced. “Some days are better than others. No more field work, though. Maybe in the future, but Blunt …”

He trailed off. Kept his language nice for Helen, though his expression said it all. John didn’t have the same qualms. Helen had never liked Blunt, not since he had first tried to order John to keep her out of the loop.

“... Is a bit of a cunt?” he suggested. Helen snorted. She had called him much worse.

“Yeah,” Ash agreed. “That.”

Alex seemed to realise someone else was there beyond his mother because he stirred again, this time followed by an unhappy sound as he made the first hungry, rooting motions. 

John picked up Alex and held him as Helen got to her feet. Eight pounds of tiny, helpless baby. He weighed less than the sniper rifles John had used in his career, and John held him a little closer, hands curled protectively around him. Alex settled a little but John could tell he still wasn’t happy. Their son had a healthy appetite and no patience when it came to food.

Helen smiled. Kissed his cheek and accepted Alex back, then vanished upstairs to feed him.

John opened the bottle of scotch and poured a glass. Offered Ash one as well and the man nodded after a second. 

“Probably shouldn’t,” he admitted but accepted the glass, anyway.

They both drank it slowly. John savoured the taste, something he hadn’t had much chance to do for more months than he cared to think about. Rothman had favoured expensive wines to go with her taste in expensive restaurants. John had never cared much for either of those. 

“How’s parenthood?” Ash finally asked.

“… weird,” John admitted. “I was all set for an MI6 career and now I can’t get out of that mess fast enough. I won’t let Alex grow up in that kind of life.”

Have him come home from school one day and just … not have his dad come back home again ever. Missing in some enemy country or another, fate unknown but presumed dead, and that was assuming they would even get the truth. Helen knew his job. That still didn’t mean MI6 wouldn’t give her some lie instead. 

John Rider had joined MI6 to serve his country. Now he found that England could go hang if it would keep Alex safe. 

“Ian’s going to be disappointed.”

“Ian thinks it’s all a laugh. Ian’s going to get himself killed one of these days.” Some days John thought his little brother was the dumbest shit that had ever managed to walk and breathe at the same time. This was one of those days. 

“He’s a good agent,” Ash said neutrally. “Blunt likes him.”

“He’s fucking naïve, that’s what he is. You know it just as well as I do. Blunt likes me, too. He likes me so much that I’m about to be shipped off to France to hide with my family under a whole new identity because of that whole SCORPIA mess. John Rider will be dead. He’ll die as a disgraced former soldier and that’s all he’ll ever be. That’s how much Blunt’s approval is worth. I’m getting out before it puts Alex in danger, too.”

Ash nodded. He didn’t argue. John hadn’t expected him to, either. Not after Ash’s own recent experiences with Alan Blunt. Mistakes happened but Blunt wasn’t the type to accept them. John didn’t have much of an opinion on it. Sure, Ash had screwed up and people had died but Blunt and Jones hadn’t exactly been blameless, either. Ash had followed the script but everyone had underestimated just how deadly Yassen was. Maybe John held part of the blame for that, too. He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about details on the kid. Yassen was a good kid caught up in shitty circumstances. He didn’t deserve the sort of attention he would get if MI6 decided he was useful.

They fell silent. Ash brought out a smoke. John turned it down. He had liked them once. Still did, and the craving was right there, the urge to smoke _just one,_ but months with SCORPIA had kept him on the straight and narrow. Well, when it came to alcohol, smokes, and drugs, anyway. Anything that might slow him down in any way. In that kind of environment, the slightest mistake could get him killed.

“France, then,” Ash eventually said. “It’ll be all wine and cheese and baguettes. I’ll make sure your scotch finds a good home.”

John grimaced. “Just keep it away from Ian. He’s got shit taste.”

Young, impulsive, and drunk on the rush of adrenaline and the surprisingly decent salary MI6 could actually manage for the really dangerous missions. John wouldn’t call it impressive, not with the sort of money SCORPIA had paid, but surprisingly decent for a government agency.

Ash snorted and winced at the movement. John Rider was grateful the man had survived. Hunter, dark and sharp and deadly, wanted words with Yassen. _You do not leave an enemy alive,_ and Yassen had been trained better than that. There were things John would never admit. _Hunter_ was one of them.

John took a slow breath. Let it out again. Drank the last of his glass in one mouthful.

“… Here’s hoping Alex will grow up in an easier fucking world than us,” he finally said.

Ash grimaced. Polished off his own glass with the look of someone who did it solely to spite his own body. “I’ll drink to that. Fuck Blunt. Fuck MI6.”

 _Fuck espionage._ John Rider was done.

* * *

In the end, John went in for one last go. Get that kid out of SCORPIA’s claws. Fake his death. Tie up the last loose ends and close that part of his life for good. 

“You’re done?” Helen asked when he finally got home in a new suit, a bruise on his back, fake blood washed off of his skin, and his old clothes destroyed.

“I’m done,” John said and meant it.

* * *

In one world, Yassen Gregorovich heard about Albert Bridge and chose to ignore it. He held no loyalty to SCORPIA or to anyone these days, but Hunter had saved his life and Yassen would not forget that. He was sure Hunter was still alive. He was sure SCORPIA would pay a fortune for the truth. Yassen Gregorovich still never spoke a word about it. 

In another world, Yassen Gregorovich heard about Albert Bridge and, for a second, hesitated. He held no loyalty to SCORPIA or to anyone these days, but Hunter had saved his life, Yassen had trusted him like he hadn’t trusted anyone since Estrov, and Yassen needed to know. 

Yassen hesitated. Then he bought a ticket with money SCORPIA didn’t know about and went to London.

* * *

Two days after his faked death and permanent extraction from SCORPIA, John Rider opened the front door of the home they’d already sold and found Yassen Gregorovich on his front step. 

Before John could say anything – this was the _last_ thing he expected – Yassen spoke.

“I know you were a double agent,” he said, bitter and a little rushed, like he wanted to get the words out before he changed his mind. John wondered how long the kid just stood there before he rang the doorbell. “I knew they wouldn’t have shot you.”

Hunter, mostly dormant since his return to London, uncurled in John’s mind, cold-blooded and serpentine. He liked Yassen, he was a good kid that John would have helped in a heartbeat if he’d been able to at all, but if he was a threat to Helen, to _Alex -_

Maybe Yassen knew, maybe he could tell, because he continued, the bitterness still in his voice. “I haven’t told anyone, I don’t think anyone else suspects. I just – had to know.” 

Whatever happened to turn that kid from someone ready to run and never look back and into a cold-blooded killer, John never found out but now he thought he had a pretty good idea.

Betrayal. Yassen found out about John’s role and lost the one person he trusted unconditionally. Hunter never had a moment of guilt about the things he did during his time with SCORPIA, couldn’t _afford_ to feel guilt, but now it was there, dark and bleak and toxic.

Self-preservation told him Yassen was a threat, a danger to be removed. John ignored it and made a split-second decision.

“Get inside,” he said, “before you catch a cold.” 

“I’m Russian,” Yassen replied but stepped inside, anyway. John closed the door behind him.

“And London this time of year is perfect pneumonia weather.”

Footsteps in the hallway and Helen appeared a moment later with Alex in her arms, drawn by the sound of voices. 

“This is Yassen,” John introduced him. “My student in Venice. He covered for us in Paris. Yassen, my wife, Helen, and Alex. He’s four weeks old.”

Helen shifted Alex slightly and smiled, small but genuine. John never imagined the two of them would meet, Helen and Yassen, but he always hoped they would get along.

“Thank you, Yassen. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She didn’t know all the details but she knew enough despite the best of MI6’s efforts to keep her in the dark. John was familiar enough with Yassen to tell that he was adding the clues together, too, and the moment he understood that Helen _knew_ and didn’t judge.

Yassen’s attention drifted to Alex, the tiny baby that made John go _enough, get me out,_ and there was both loss and vulnerability in his eyes. It wasn’t the future master assassin in the making that John left with SCORPIA but the kid that John first saw, young and unsure of his place in the world. 

Outside, John Rider looked calm. At ease with the situation. Inside, Hunter was rapidly shifting through their options, discarding one after the other with brutal efficiency.

If Yassen found them, others could, too. Sure, Yassen knew he was alive – suspected, anyway – but all it would take would be one suspicious person, a single board member who wanted to look closer at things, and the game would be up. Every hour they spent in London now would bring them one step closer to discovery.

MI6 had guaranteed their safety. That had been John’s price for going undercover. A few weeks in London, then permanently relocated to France and a brand new life.

Yassen’s presence was proof they failed. Maybe for lack of trying, maybe because they underestimated the danger, maybe for more sinister reasons – John didn’t know and didn’t care.

His family was in danger and the list of people he could trust beyond his own family – beyond Helen and Ian – just narrowed down to … well. Yassen, he suspected. 

He couldn’t trust MI6 any more. SCORPIA had plenty of moles and he had been a fool to believe their reassurances. He could trust no one, not Blunt, not Jones, not Ash. No one. 

As John watched, Yassen accepted Alex from Helen, unsure but infinitely gentle, and Hunter’s plans shifted a little more. Yassen didn’t trust him any more, not the way he used to, not that unconditional faith and loyalty, but – enough. Enough to do this, maybe. He was not the kid who wore his heart on his sleeve any more, but he wasn’t SCORPIA’s creature, either. Not yet.

Helen could read him like an open book. She glanced at him but John shook his head minutely. They could talk later.

* * *

Yassen stayed the night. It was late, it was cold, he was tired, and he seemed to have arrived on a whim more than anything. Sometimes it was easy to forget the kid had only just turned twenty.

“John?” Helen asked that night, Alex nursing and clinging to her blouse.

“If Yassen found us, others can, too. We have to leave. We can’t risk France.”

MI6 never wanted Helen involved in things but John kept her up to date, anyway. They could both keep a secret. It was priceless now when she didn’t need the background explained.

“You want to bring Yassen along.”

“Yes.” Because he was a kid, because he deserved better, because John wouldn’t let SCORPIA have him if he could help it, and because he had the sinking feeling he might just owe Yassen his life – his and Helen’s and Alex’s – for what that kid just did.

Helen was silent for long seconds. Then she nodded.

“All right.” She shifted Alex slightly. “Ian? Ash?”

John had already considered that. The conclusion was not a nice one. Alex should have grown up with Ash as his godfather and Ian as his uncle. They had already decided that if they had a second child, Ian would be the godfather. But then SCORPIA had happened, SCORPIA and Malta and everything and - 

\- It wasn’t John’s business any more. He was out of it now. Out of intelligence work, out of MI6. He was too well-known to be useful to them now.

Helen and Alex came first.

“We’ll tell Ian if it’s safe.” _Eventually,_ he didn’t add. He didn’t mention Ash and that was all the answer Helen needed.

Helen nodded again. Just like that, their future was decided.

* * *

Yassen took a bit more convincing.

“You don’t owe me anything.” Still angry, still bitter, still betrayed, and now prideful on top. Sometimes John was painfully reminded of just how young Yassen really was.

“I think I do,” John told him bluntly. “We would have trusted MI6 to keep us safe. If you found us here, others could, too. That’s not the point, though. I’m giving you the choice, Yassen. Something other than SCORPIA.”

Yassen stilled. He couldn’t keep his expression completely unreadable but close enough these days. John had the dark suspicion that Yassen’s discovery of his true loyalties had caused a lot of that sudden ability as well.

“They trained me. I owe them.” The words lacked any conviction.

“You owe them nothing.” Yassen opened his mouth to argue but John cut him off. “Money? Your servitude for the next five years? Yassen, they _calculate_ that a certain number of students don’t live long enough to be useful to them. You have potential, yes. A lot of it. They still won’t bother hunting you down. Stay out of their way and they’ll write you off as just another failed student.”

Something flickered through Yassen’s eyes, wounded pride or stubbornness. “I didn’t _fail_.”

“So you’ll go back to them and let them hold your leash?” Yassen didn’t answer. John sighed. “They’ll take anything they can get. Your life, your loyalty, everything they can. You’re young, much younger than their usual students. They know that by the time your exclusive contract runs out, you’ll be so dependent on SCORPIA that you will have nowhere else to go. MI6 needed someone with my background to go undercover but they also needed someone older and settled. It’s too easy to get caught up in that world when you’re young and still trying to figure things out. They’ll vet your assignments, arrange for travel, weapons, and cover identities, they’ll handle your payment … eventually, it’ll feel like just another job.”

Yassen was silent, the way he had been at Malagosto when he considered one of John’s lessons. That was a good sign, at least.

 _Vanish into Russia,_ John had told him. _Get out of this world._ This was no different.

Cool, calculating eyes focused on John again; a glimpse of the man Yassen might one day become. “And if I want to keep doing this without SCORPIA?”

“I would prefer if you didn’t but I’m not going to stop you.” John didn’t like it but Hunter, brutally pragmatic, understood. This was all Yassen had. This was what he had trained for. This was what John Rider’s betrayal had pushed him to. If that was what Yassen wanted, John wasn’t going to stop him. He had already tried once and failed. “It takes a lot more to make it as a freelance operative without that kind of support network than you think, but if you can do it, I won’t stop you.”

Yassen was still for long seconds. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Because I like you and I’ll be damned if I’m letting SCORPIA have you.”

The answer was blunt and honest in a way that SCORPIA had never been. It also seemed to handle what calm logic and reasonable arguments couldn’t. 

“… How would we do this, then?” Cautious curiosity, but enough that Hunter knew in that moment that he had won.

“Family makes the best cover. You can pass for a year or two younger. I can bump my age up a bit. Ten years age difference is a bit hard to work with. Put you at eighteen and me at thirty-five, and it’s seventeen years instead. That’s a bit of a young age to have your first kid but not unheard of. You’ll be my son. Alex’s half-brother. Any difference in looks will be credited to your imaginary mother.”

It was a gamble; a big one. John knew Yassen’s history; the bare bones of it at least. If Yassen took the suggestion badly, it could all fail. If he went along with it, though – SCORPIA would be looking for a family with an infant, not a family with a teenage son and a newborn. It would be a lot safer that way for all four of them. If SCORPIA took badly to Yassen’s disappearance, they would be hunting a twenty-year-old young man on his own, not the eighteen-year-old son of a stable, loving family.

Yassen hesitated. John wondered what went through his mind. The family he had lost? That moment of betrayal, when he had realised just where John’s true loyalties lay?

“Yassen.”

Blue eyes met warm brown and John continued. “I won’t apologise for doing my job but that doesn’t mean you were just part of my cover. I trained you the best I could because I wanted you to survive and have a chance, even if you’d end up working against me at some point.”

“You wanted me to leave. I almost did. Then I found that battery in your bag. The Power Plus one.”

John had wondered about that, too. Just how Yassen had found out. Now he knew. He wanted to laugh. “Figures. A damn beginner’s mistake. You could have damned me a dozen times over. SCORPIA would pay a lot to get rid of a mole in my position. Let me do this. I’m not trying to replace your family, I know I can’t, but I can give you a chance. What you choose to do with it, that’s not my business, but let me give you that choice.”

_Trust me. Give me the chance._

Silence. The seconds stretched on. John didn’t move and neither did Yassen.

Then, finally -

“… Yes,” Yassen said, and John made a silent promise to prove himself worthy of that trust.

* * *

John Rider had money. Not everything he got from SCORPIA ended up in the account MI6 knew about. He had enough hidden funds for new identities that could pass for legitimate. He had enough to get them out of the country and to settle somewhere else. He did not have enough to start over completely from scratch.

John Rider drained two of SCORPIA’s slush funds. Not the ones Hunter might know about, of course. He wasn’t suicidal. He still left Zurich with almost three million in Swiss Franc. 

The bank asked no questions. He said the right things, showed the proper authorisation. They didn’t care about anything else.

Someone would probably die for that little slip in security. John couldn’t bring himself to care.

* * *

They had decisions to make. A place to settle. John wanted a bit of distance to the Iron Curtain. Italy was out of the question, at least the northern parts. So was France, too close to their original plans. 

He kept drifting back to Switzerland. Away from Zurich, of course, and the accounts he had just drained, but SCORPIA would not expect him to stick around even if they figured it out.

… Geneva, maybe. John had never told anyone but he had always liked that part of the world. He suspected Helen would, too.

The day they left was a carefully orchestrated dance. John transferred the money in his official accounts the day before, just before the end of banking hours. The money would pass through several more banks before he picked them up in person in Madrid some four weeks later; a new person with a new identity. 

He had almost left them in the bank and written them off as not worth the risk but it wasn’t exactly spare change and it was a matter of principle to him. And he had no way to know if they would need them one day.

The Rider family left for Germany. Yassen met them in Frankfurt.

Five hours, three burned passports, and some new paperwork later, the trail ended for any pursuers they may have had, and the Morrison family left Frankfurt by car, bound for Switzerland.

* * *

In one world, a small plane bound for France exploded shortly after take-off in the early hours of a cold April morning. There would be no survivors.

In another, that same morning, Séamus and Caroline Morrison signed the paperwork for a lovely, somewhat secluded house outside of Geneva for themselves and their two sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve kept Alex’s birth year as 1987. While it doesn’t fit with technology and more current events in the later books, it fits with what came before the books, like John Rider being a Falkland War veteran and SCORPIA being founded by Cold War spies who realised they would be out of a job soon. Alex would have been two and a half years old by the time the Berlin Wall fell. He would be too young to remember it but John, a veteran and MI6 agent, would certainly be well aware of it. 
> 
> I'm hopelessly behind on review replies for _Devil and the Deep Blue Sea_ , but I plan to get to those this weekend. The Big Bang has a deadline of February 1st so this fic got first priority.
> 
> I, uh, have no idea of how many parts this will be. Four or five, maybe? I'm finishing up the second one and started working on the third one. I'm hoping to update weekly, since it's a reasonably short one.


	2. Part II: Geneva (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only managed to get far enough in this chapter to fit in one of wolfern’s beautiful drawings, so the other three will be in the next one. In other (not) news, my word count estimates are, uh, dubious.

John Rider left London in the middle of April. He left chaos in his wake.

Ash knew nothing until Tulip Jones arrived and interrupted his Monday morning paperwork. Report after report after report that needed registered and archived and he didn’t see the words any more, just a piece of paper in front of his eyes with JOHN RIDER written on it in sharp letters and the flash of red from Julia Rothman’s dress. 

_I can be useful to you. Let me prove myself._

It wasn’t even ten. There were already three squashed cigarette butts on his desk, ground spitefully into the wooden surface because _fuck you, Blunt_. It was not a good day.

_Will you kill for us?_

Tulip Jones’ arrival in his new, small office – _out of the way now that he was useless to MI6_ – sent a surge of adrenaline through him. Even that wasn’t enough to clear the memory of Julia Rothman’s voice from Ash’s mind.

_This is your assignment._

She closed the door behind her. An office in such a remote corner of the building saw very little traffic in the hallway outside. She wanted privacy, then. She also looked tense. Unhappy. 

_JOHN RIDER_

Did they know? They couldn’t – he had been careful, _Julia Rothman_ had been careful, but maybe it had been a setup, maybe he had missed a bit of surveillance and it hadn’t been Rothman at all but a skilled actor, and - 

“John is gone,” Tulip said instead. “He left with Helen and Alex. They flew from Heathrow to Frankfurt Saturday morning but we lost track of them after they landed.”

That wasn’t concern, not in the way Ash would have expected. Tulip and John were friends – John was friends with just about bloody _everyone_ – but that wasn’t friendly concern.

It took long seconds before Ash’s pain-clouded mind caught up and when it did, that concern made terrible sense. 

This wasn’t just a recently-retired MI6 agent that had vanished with his family, Ash realised with sudden, sharp clarity through the pain and the doubts and _so many regrets._

This was the man who had been SCORPIA’s best assassin during his time with them, and he was now a rogue agent with a forty-eight hour head-start. 

Ash stilled. 

Had John known? He had to, hadn’t he? Everything had been arranged with MI6, a new life with new identities, and now John was gone. More importantly, Ash realised with a chill – _how had he known?_

Did John still have contacts with SCORPIA? Had it been pure chance? Or would Julia Rothman reach the logical conclusion and assume that Ash had warned him, deliberately or on accident?

Ash wanted to hyperventilate. Felt his chest tighten, the vice-like grip of panic, and -

“Ash.” Tulip’s voice was deadly serious. “If you know _anything_ …” 

He understood there and then that he had a choice to make and he couldn’t afford to get it wrong. 

SCORPIA – he had been ready to kill anyone for SCORPIA, angry and bitter and betrayed, but the piece of paper had said JOHN RIDER, and even if Rothman didn’t think he had warned John, what sort of test would they give him instead? They had told him to murder his best friend. What was their back-up idea? 

MI6 – Blunt, grey and cold and so fucking condescending that Ash wanted to kill him, and they would want to lock him away for the rest of his natural life if they found out about it if they didn’t just have him conveniently vanish, but … 

… Not if Ash played his cards right. Maybe he had fucked up in Mdina but he was still a good intelligence agent. Could he manage to be convincing enough in front of Blunt and Jones? For the chance to pull one over that grey bastard, Ash would give it his damn best.

Ash had heard rumours. He had contacts. SCORPIA was possibly on to John. He’d taken a risk, found those contacts – John was his friend and he owed him for … fuck it, something, he’d think of something – and … that had led him to Julia Rothman and proof that SCORPIA knew John was alive and planned to kill him. Before he could act on his intel, find a way to do it without getting both himself and John killed, John had found out some other way and acted on his own.

Right. That would do. It would have to.

“I want complete immunity and a new identity,” Ash said. “You need to handle the paperwork yourself, you’ve got at least one mole somewhere in this place, and that’s all I’ll say for now. Give me complete immunity and a new start somewhere else, and I’ll give you what I know.”

Tulip’s expression tightened. Ash wasn’t surprised. She would know he wouldn’t have had demands like that unless it was ugly. 

Still, she nodded once. Sharply. Ash wasn’t surprised about that, either. They needed his intel. He had gambled on it.

“Agreed.”

SCORPIA would never trust him, not after John’s escape. He’d be lucky if they didn’t shoot him on sight. MI6 it was, then.

* * *

Yassen felt awkward in the house. He was twenty and hadn’t had a home or a family since fourteen. He had a place to live – not a home, not yet, but perhaps in time – and people that his paperwork claimed were his relatives but -

\- not.

He had looked up to Hunter on Malagosto, the mentor and almost father figure he hadn’t had in years, who might have played a role but still seemed to have genuinely cared about him, and now he had an identity that called John Rider ‘father’.

Yassen didn’t sleep all that well. He didn’t sleep that long to begin with any more, and in a new house, with a new identity, and a whole new life … 

_“Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, smiles await you when you rise. Sleep, pretty baby, do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby.”_

And then there was Alex.

Hunter was gone for the week. There were people to contact and supplies to bring back. Enough to ensure they could have a considerable arsenal in the house. Yassen had stayed behind. Hunter had called it protection. Of his family or Yassen himself, Yassen wasn’t sure. Maybe both. He wasn’t sure what to think about that.

The soft sound of footsteps had drifted up and down the hallway for a while now, followed by the low sound of singing and the occasional small, unhappy sound from the baby. Hunter’s son. 

Yassen got out of bed. Slipped soundlessly out the door. Hunter’s wife still glanced over when he appeared. 

It felt odd to think about her as ‘Helen’ or ‘Caroline’, much less call her ‘mum’ in public.

Alex was clinging to her shoulder, face pressed against her neck and not quite asleep. She gave Yassen a questioning look but kept up her humming. She didn’t look annoyed at the interruption, just … curious. 

Yassen shifted a little, not actually sure what to do.

“… Can I help?” he asked quietly, low enough not to disturb the baby. 

Hunter’s wife glanced down at the child. Alex chose that moment to rub his face against her neck and make another unhappy sound. 

“… If you would hold him while I make a cup of tea, that would be lovely,” she said. “I think this could take a while.”

_Hold him._

Yassen froze for a second at the thought of being responsible for Hunter’s tiny child but then he nodded. Slowly.

Helen smiled slightly. She could probably tell his hesitation. Then she eased Alex over in Yassen’s arms and gently shifted Yassen’s hands around until the baby was settled against his chest, snuggled firmly against him. 

It was not the first time Yassen had held him but he couldn’t help the brief flash of panic as Helen vanished downstairs and left Yassen alone with an infant in his arms. 

Alex’s hair brushed against his skin, so fine and blond it was almost invisible. Tiny, clenched fists rested on his collarbone, and every light breath was a whisper of warmth against his throat.

Alex made a small sound. Yassen stilled, instant panic back, but Alex seemed content to stay where he was and Yassen relaxed slightly again. 

Downstairs he heard quiet sounds from the kitchen as Helen prepared her tea and he glanced down and watched Alex again.

This was the child that had made Hunter call off his undercover mission. This was the child he was willing to let the world burn for. Hunter had been everything SCORPIA had wanted. Intelligent, skilled, lethal and ruthless, and with a chameleon’s ability to fit in anywhere and befriend anyone. Julia Rothman had liked him. Yassen got the impression a lot of the executive board had.

Hunter had been on a fast track to the highest echelons of SCORPIA … and then he had stopped. Not for any worry about his body count, not for the blood on his hands or the assignments he would have to carry out or the risk if he were discovered, but for Alex. 

For the tiny baby in Yassen’s arms that Hunter’s wife had trusted him with. For the tiny baby that Hunter had been willing to leave Yassen around, with only his wife to step in if Yassen turned out to be untrustworthy.

Alex made another sound, this one a little more insistent. Yassen pushed the brief panic aside and forced himself to focus instead. He could call for Helen and she could be there, but … 

… Hunter had trusted him. They both had. 

Yassen hesitated. Then he began to hum, low and careful. He didn’t remember the words and could barely dredge the tune from his memory, but it seemed to be enough.

Alex calmed down again. Pressed himself closer to Yassen.

Long minutes later when Helen returned, two mugs of tea in her hand, Yassen was still humming.

* * *

It was June when John picked up the first whispers that there was a prize on Hunter’s head, and he felt the close brush of a scythe. It wasn’t a safe place, being hunted by SCORPIA, but it would have been even less safe to be hunted and _not even have known._

He still had his old network. He hadn’t been sure it would be worth the risk but he had decided to keep in touch with it in the end. He was careful, of course, but in that moment every risk had been worth it. 

Would MI6 have found out? Would they even have bothered to let John know? And just how long had SCORPIA suspected he was still alive? 

Long enough to put a bounty on him, obviously. 

John didn’t know how they had discovered it but he had to assume everyone back in London was potentially compromised, including Jones, Ash, and Blunt.

… Including Ian.

_Fuck._

* * *

“You’ll need to learn self-defence,” John told Helen. He wasn’t sure how he felt about teaching his wife to kill – and she would need to, with the sort of people that might one day target them. His wife was a nurse, care and nurture and life to balance out the darkness of his own career. Now he would need to teach her, too. 

Mainly he felt determined. He would do whatever he could to keep his family safe and this was part of it. When Alex was old enough, they would need to train him, too. Whatever it took. 

“It would be a shame to waste a live-in instructor,” Helen agreed, and that was all the discussion they needed.

She didn’t have Yassen’s youth or John’s skills and excellent physical condition, but she had one of SCORPIA’s best instructors to teach her and the determination to see it through.

Helen Rider would never be a match for one of Malagosto’s assassins but she would have wiped the floor with a number of intelligence agents John had known.

He was damn proud of her.

* * *

“What do you want to do?”

Yassen got the distinct impression that Hunter meant the question a little more long-term than just his immediate plans for the future. He was the first person to ask Yassen that question since Estrov and Yassen wasn’t actually sure what to answer.

“You must have wanted something,” John continued. “No one just wakes up one day and decides to become an assassin.”

They had talked about his past in bits and pieces at Malagosto but that had been to give Hunter an idea of what he had to work with. What he needed to fix to turn Yassen into Cossack, like SCORPIA wanted. This was – different. 

Did it even matter? Yassen was a very different person than he had been in Estrov, so long ago. He had followed John Rider away from SCORPIA in a moment of impulsiveness but he was still Cossack. Still the trained killer.

Still the man who had vowed to become the best assassin in the world to prove Hunter wrong about his potential. 

“… I wanted to be a helicopter pilot,” Yassen finally said and he wasn’t quite sure what he felt about admitting that out loud.

John made a low, thoughtful sound. 

“Useful,” he said, and Yassen should have known better than to expect _Hunter_ to get sentimental about that sort of thing. Even now. MI6 would not have sent someone undercover who did not have that killer instinct and ruthlessness at their core. 

“What do you want to do?” John repeated and somehow the question felt different this time.

Yassen couldn’t imagine a normal job. Couldn’t imagine fitting into a normal world with normal people, doing normal small-talk and just – being normal. 

He had skills, Malagosto and Hunter had seen to that, and he had no real feelings one way or the other about killing any more. Not since his one, brief return to settle his past in Russia. 

It would just be a job. A little more dangerous than most, a little harder to arrange now that he had lost SCORPIA’s vast support network, and a little trickier to avoid the attention of his former masters, but … a job. A well-paid one, and Yassen was still petty and spiteful enough to want to prove that he could do it, he could admit that much to himself. 

“It would be a pity to waste the skills I have worked hard to gain.” If there was a challenge in the words, Yassen would never admit to it. Hunter had said he would allow it. Time to put that to the test.

“It’s a lot more difficult as a freelance assassin than your experiences with SCORPIA.” Hunter paused. Looked at Yassen, really looked, and Yassen stared right back. 

“I’ll resume your training,” Hunter said abruptly. “You’ll listen, you’ll obey, you’ll learn, and we do this together. If I turn down a job, you listen. No arguments. If you want to do this, you’ll need to be able to figure that stuff out on your own eventually, and the only way to learn is through experience.”

Yassen stilled. “You would let me?”

He hated the faint uncertainty in his voice, hated the part of him that still craved Hunter’s approval, but it also wasn’t the answer he had expected and he was – surprised. Hunter had a family now. A son. That wasn’t the sort of career Yassen expected a family man to have.

“Like you said,” Hunter replied, “it would be a shame to waste those skills.” He paused. “I don’t like it but I’m not going to stop you, Yassen. Just make sure you won’t get yourself killed or lead anyone back to Helen or Alex in the process. Do it right and it pays well. Just have a good cover and an excuse for your income.”

“… Like being a pilot,” Yassen said and realised what Hunter implied.

Hunter shrugged. “It’ll work. Most people don’t know the first thing about pilot salaries, especially not for freelance ones. Me, I think I’ll look into investing. I’ve got some money put aside to work with. It’ll be a decent cover and excuse some travel. Go look into new investment opportunities and all. You’ll need your license, of course.”

“Of course,” Yassen echoed, still a little off-balance from the way the conversation had very much not gone like he expected.

John nodded, seemingly satisfied, and just like that the matter was settled, like it had been nothing more than a discussion about school grades and not resuming a career as a hired killer. 

Sometimes Yassen wondered how MI6 had found someone who had fit so effortlessly in with SCORPIA. Sometimes he wondered if MI6 even knew what they had unleashed when they did.

* * *

In one world, Yassen Gregorovich became the most lethal weapon in SCORPIA’s considerable arsenal. 

In another, Yassen Gregorovich left SCORPIA but spent a lot longer under Hunter’s tutelage. The end result was no less lethal.

* * *

“I don’t like this.”

Calm. Even. Helen was probably the most steady, level-headed person John knew and that was part of why he had fallen in love with her in the first place. She had never been fazed by his injuries, never asked for details he couldn’t give, never once let anything come before the well-being of her patient. 

It was evening. Alex was finally asleep in his crib, restless from teething. The sun had set. The world beyond the window was the hazy darkness of approaching night. 

Her hair glowed golden in the soft light of the bedroom lamp and John reached out to stroke a curl with a gentle touch.

“I know,” he admitted quietly. “I need the skills. I need my network. I need …” 

He trailed off, not sure how to explain it. He needed to keep them safe. He couldn’t trust MI6 to do it so there was really no one left. Not without running unacceptable risks. He needed the money from the jobs, he needed to keep his skills honed and his reputation lethal, and he needed access to the network he had slowly built up and which had already saved their lives once when he used those contacts for their new identities.

Did he like the job? Of course not. Did he mind it enough to stop? Not when Alex and Helen’s safety was on the line. Hunter had thrived with SCORPIA for a reason. John would have no qualms about picking right back up where he had left off if it kept his family safe.

His job came with dangers of its own but ignorance and a vain attempt to hide in perfect anonymity would be even worse. This way he would at least be more likely to have advance warning.

Helen reached out and entangled her fingers with his. Her ring caught the light with the motion, gold and a little scratched, a silent witness to the fact that his wife was no fragile flower. 

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

Her hand was warm and calloused. He squeezed it slightly. Felt her squeeze back.

“Yeah.” His response was little more than an exhale. 

He wished he didn’t have to as well. He wished they hadn’t had to flee London, entirely on their own. He wished MI6 would have done their damn job. 

He wished, not for the first time, that he had never agreed to go undercover with SCORPIA. 

John Rider wished for a lot of things when he allowed himself to. Most of the time he didn’t. Maybe he wished but he wasn’t about to let that stop him from doing what he had to.

Helen understood everything he didn’t say. He had known she would. She didn’t say anything but melted into his embrace and for a long time they just stood here, her head against his chest and the steady beat of his heart, her hair draped against him and the soft scent of her perfume.

 

 

In the crib, Alex stirred and made a small, unhappy sound.

John reluctantly let go of her. “He has great timing,” he murmured, fondly.

Helen squeezed his hand one last time, then let go to see to their son. “I know. He takes after both of us.”

John couldn’t even argue.

* * *

Yassen had been starstruck as John Rider’s pupil. It was not an entirely comfortable realisation but it was true. He had admired the man, would have done anything he asked and -

\- Maybe it was still not so different, these days. The admiration was still there. Tempered by realism but no less strong.

Hunter was a virtuoso. His art was lethal and violent but his skills were indisputable and all the more so now that he chose his own jobs and his own methods. He was an exceptional sniper, the sort of skill that Yassen strived towards and slowly but steadily approached, and even unarmed, he was a lethal weapon on his own.

“SCORPIA was all about business,” Hunter said. “They trained their assassins just the way they wanted them: all obedience and no imagination. You’ll be on your own. Your reputation will be one of the most valuable things in your arsenal. Consider what you want to be and stick to that. At the end of the day, you still need to be able to look in a mirror.”

_All obedience and no imagination._

Yassen wanted to argue. He was one of those assassins. Had been, anyway. Then again, so had Hunter and he had trained a number of students, too. He would know, wouldn’t he? 

His doubt must have shown because Hunter sighed.

“SCORPIA handles assignments, paperwork, transportation, weapons, everything. No independent thought or imagination needed. If some of their assassins become a problem, a little too independent or too much of a liability, they’re easy to replace. SCORPIA’s network doesn’t care who the operative is, just that someone is there to carry out the actual assassination. You know the term for that?” Hunter asked bluntly. “ _Expendable._ They’re just another weapon and only slightly harder to dispose of if they become incriminating evidence.”

Against his will, Yassen was reminded of Julia Rothman who had killed Grant for his failure, and Oliver d’Arc who’d made Yassen bury the body as a lesson. 

A lot of things felt distant and muted after Sharkovsky, like the memories had been stripped of emotions. Even then he still vividly remembered the blisters on his palms, the dampness of the air and the wet, heavy soil, and the overwhelming knowledge that this was the life of an assassin. Death. Your own or others’, it didn’t matter. In the end it was all the same. 

“And you’re _different_.” The words were pure, spiteful stubbornness, contrariness for the sake of it, and Yassen knew it even as he spoke the words.

Hunter’s only reaction was a wry, amused smile. “Well, I’m certainly not going to do your work for you. When I’m done with your training, you’ll be able to manage all of that with no help from me. Win or lose, Yassen, your life will be your own.”

Deep in Yassen’s chest, some small, neglected part of him slowly uncurled.

He thought it might be hope.

* * *

Hunter taught Yassen to survive on his own without SCORPIA’s support or convenient network. SCORPIA had taught him how to kill and escape again, but Hunter taught him everything else that came with it. The bullet or knife was but one moment among weeks or possibly months of work, and Yassen needed to know everything. 

Hunter’s wife taught him to survive in other ways.

“I wasn’t just a nurse,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was a nurse in a private hospital, in the ward favoured by special operations for their people. When Alex gets a little older, I’ll look into expanding my skills but there’s still plenty you need to learn.”

Malagosto had taught only the bare necessities of survival. Most of the medical knowledge the school taught was meant to kill or torture, not patch someone back up. Hunter and SCORPIA had taught him to kill. Helen Rider taught him the skills that might one day save his life. 

Yassen learned first aid. He learned medical skills. He learned to suture on pig feet and orange peels. Knots and different types and needles and materials - 

\- “If you have the luxury to be picky, anyway,” Helen conceded and carried right on -

\- and anything else he needed to know to patch himself back up. He learned the theories of bullet wounds when they weren’t merely something inflicted on others. He learned about knife wounds and concussions and dislocated limbs. He learned the names and usage of useful drugs, much like Malagosto had taught him about poisons. 

Yassen never breathed a word of it but in some ways Hunter’s wife reminded him of a blonde mirror image of Dr Three. Life against death, healing against torture, nurture against the sadist’s delight, but the same relentlessness and the same medical knowledge just put to very different use. 

Yassen had once wondered about the small, blonde woman who had come to Paris at six months pregnant for a few, stolen hours with her husband. Living under the same roof taught him fast that she could be every bit as stubborn and ruthless as her husband.

* * *

The Morrison family settled down. A well-to-do family in a well-to-do area, Caroline Morrison stayed at home to raise their youngest son and dismissed any well-meaning suggestions that she should hire a nanny and get some time to herself. Séamus became a familiar face in Geneva’s financial circles. A social man, genuinely charming, a little absent-minded but an intelligent investor with a sharp wit, he easily made friends and slipped into professional networks that had been around for years or decades like he belonged there. 

No, his oldest son didn’t share his father’s interest in investments but he was still young and deserved the chance to enjoy his freedom a little before adult responsibility beckoned. He wanted to be a pilot, and his parents could afford to pay for it, and it was a nice, respectable job. And if Séamus looked a little sheepish if the age difference between his two sons was brought up, well, no one could blame him. Everyone could do the maths, and Séamus could hardly have been much more than seventeen when he had become a father. 

No one doubted the story. The gossip was just too juicy not to share and with every retelling, the story grew that bit more convincing. After a month, it was wonderful gossip. After a year, it would be the widely accepted truth that Séamus Morrison had got a girl pregnant at seventeen but done the responsible thing and raised the boy to the best of his ability and done a damn good job of it.

The Rider family vanished. Yassen Gregorovich became a ghost. And for the first time since London, John Rider breathed just a little easier.

* * *

MI6 approached the likelihood of a leak – of multiple leaks – with the seriousness it deserved.

Tulip handled the investigation herself with the help of a few, trusted people she had personally vetted in advance. It was done quietly, without even the whisper of a rumour, and they did not skip a single person on MI6’s payroll, however unlikely their treason might be. It could have been blackmail. It could have been carelessness. 

In the end, it turned out to be money. Enough to make most people on an average, modest salary at least pause.

Their leak was a mousy man, meticulous in his work and well-liked if a little dull at times … Tulip had walked past him in the hallways countless times and never really noticed him.

The sheer list of files he had passed on to SCORPIA, though, everything from undercover agents to regular workers, to the leadership, to _Tulip’s own family -_

She took a sharp breath. 

Her husband. _Her children._

And SCORPIA knew everything about them. About them, and a number of other vulnerable spots for their higher-ranking people. 

She understood in that instant just what John had felt. What had driven him to risk everything on a mad escape, because if SCORPIA knew he was alive, there would have been literally no one he could have trusted. His survival and true loyalty was highly classified information. If that had leaked, there would have been no way to know who to trust.

Tulip’s family would be moved to a safe-house before the end of the day and permanently relocated under new names before the end of the month. They would not be the only ones.

Tulip Jones had Alan Blunt’s assistance and an MI6 that she had personally vetted. 

John Rider had had none of that. Only his own resources, his own contacts, his own skills, and they hunted him as a rogue agent for the crime of protecting his family when MI6 could not.

Anthony Howell would get his demands. Tulip’s family would get protection. Their leak would quietly vanish. And somewhere out there, under new names and new identities, John and Helen and Alex were entirely on their own, hunted by SCORPIA and with no one else to trust.

MI6 had learned its lesson. Tulip just wished they had learned it six months sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Helen sings is _Golden Slumbers_ from the Beatles’ 1969 album _Abbey Road._ It seemed a song that had probably stuck enough that Helen would sing it to Alex.


	3. Part III: Geneva (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in chapter 2, the art is by the talented wolfern from ff.net!

MI6 got the first bit of proof that John Rider was still alive in December when the first rumours reached them.

Hunter was active again, now as a freelancer and no longer on SCORPIA’s payroll.

Just as important, Hunter had an apprentice.

Tulip Jones, who had an inch-thick file on John Rider’s career, could fill in the blanks just fine. There was only one apprentice she could imagine he would accept – ignoring, of course, the brief, mad thought that he might have decided to train _Helen_. Yassen Gregorovich had seemingly vanished from the surface of the earth after Mdina. Now Tulip supposed they knew where he had been. 

It also explained how John had known SCORPIA was on to them. If Gregorovich’s loyalty to John was stronger than his loyalty to SCORPIA, even with John’s deception … if Gregorovich had warned him, Tulip would not be surprised if John had taken the boy with him. He’d always had a soft spot for his student and Gregorovich’s file with MI6 was suspiciously bare of any actually useful information. They had never questioned it before – Gregorovich was but one trainee assassin and John had plenty of other information that mattered far more – but now it had become blatantly obvious just how much John had shielded the boy. 

John Rider was not a psychopath, MI6 had made absolutely sure of that before they approved the SCORPIA mission. He was a stable, patient individual, he was capable of genuine emotions, he loved his wife, he was loyal to his country, and his men and superiors in the Paras had had nothing but praise for him. It did not change the fact that he still had enough of a psychopath’s traits to thrive in a place like SCORPIA. John Rider was a good man. He was also a cold-blooded killer, callous and skilled enough to charm and befriend anyone and betray them the moment later without a flicker of guilt, and his concern for anyone that wasn’t his immediate family was close to non-existent. 

Tulip knew that these days ‘immediate family’ was defined more or less as ‘Helen’ and from what little they had seen, Alex now as well. John had cared about his men in the Paras, he had risked his life to keep them safe, but he wasn’t with the Paras any longer and his time with SCORPIA had changed him. Tulip had genuine doubts that John even cared that deeply about Ian these days. 

Maybe Yassen Gregorovich was counted in that small group now. Maybe it was just some sense of obligation because the boy had warned him, but John had made an effort to protect Gregorovich before and that spoke volumes to Tulip now.

John was back to his career as a contract killer. A risky career, but Tulip understood. It paid well, and John had never really liked the thought of a quiet, anonymous life. This career had risks but with Hunter’s reputation it would also offer some protection to Helen and Alex. Few people would want to cross someone like him.

It wasn’t like John was bothered by murder. MI6 would not have sent him undercover with SCORPIA if that had been an issue. And now Hunter was out there, with the best training MI6, SCORPIA, and a military career could offer, and no one to answer to.

Cossack had been lethal in Mdina. Tulip didn’t want to consider what the boy might be like after several more years under Hunter’s wing.

* * *

“The kill,” Hunter explained, “is the least of it.”

It was late May and they were in Monaco, two tourists out for a week or two of mindless fun, and Hunter’s appearance matched that perfectly. Khaki slacks, an eyesore of a shirt, sunglasses, and a pair of dusty, worn sandals. Yassen still sometimes had a hard time joining the image that Hunter presented with the lethal assassin that lurked beneath the surface.

Another reason why he was so successful, Yassen knew. It was not about ego. Ego got you killed. Routine got you killed. Showing off got you killed. Hunter adapted to whatever role he had to play, and it mattered nothing to him if the people around him wrote him off as a snob or a tourist or a homeless drunk or whatever other role he had taken on to do his job. 

“Anyone can kill a target that’s easy to get to. A few hundred dollars and the right words to the right gangs will buy you a murder. A messy one, sure, and the killer would probably get caught, but the point stands. If you want to make enough of a living from this to survive and afford to retire, you need to be good enough to handle those assassinations that others can’t. SCORPIA will handle the clients and arrange for weapons for most of their assassins, and they’ll charge for it, too, don’t doubt that for a second. I handled things myself, they knew I could, and because of that I kept most of the payment and the ability to survive alone.”

The Mediterranean Sea shimmered bright blue beyond the buildings and the harbour and the expensive yachts. The sun was pleasant, the sky clear, and the whole thing looked like a postcard to Yassen. A perfect little place for those with the money to afford it.

… Or not so perfect, perhaps, given the amount of money someone had offered to see their target dead. How much did SCORPIA make from their own assassins? How much of that pay did they keep themselves? Yassen had never considered it. He supposed it made sense. SCORPIA did nothing for free; they had not been so helpful to their assassins because they were good, kind people. He had been a fool for not looking past the well-oiled machine he had become part of.

“Take our target,” Hunter continued. “Lovely villa with a view of the sea, lots of room, nice and secluded. Bulletproof windows if he’s got any sense after the last assassination attempt, of course. Assume they’re bulletproof even if you can’t prove it; never trust on luck to see you through.” 

Ironic words from a man said to have the luck of the devil but Yassen didn’t say so. Hunter had not survived through luck alone. Perhaps luck had carried him through where others might have died, but he had not survived on that alone.

“No proper sniper spots less than half a mile away and even with that one, you need to be one hell of a marksman to work with the angles you’re given and still avoid unwanted attention. Heavy security, no way to get to his cars, and while grenades and explosives in general will certainly give a nice big boom, they’re notoriously unreliable for individual targets.”

Yassen nodded. “So what approach will we use, then?”

Hunter smiled, a sharp thing with an undercurrent of the killer that he was. “The sniper spot, of course. You need to be one hell of a sniper to work with it. There’s a reason no one has spotted that weakness before. It’ll take a bit of planning and a lot of waiting but I think the pay will be just about worth it.”

Yassen had no idea of what the job paid. Based on Hunter’s reaction, he assumed it was quite the acceptable fee.

* * *

Alex had learned to walk in January. By August, a year and a half old, he could run. Yassen didn’t remember much about small children from Estrov but he wondered if all toddlers were quite that … suicidal. 

Alex Rider had been a hazard to himself from the moment he learned to crawl, walking _really_ hadn’t improved on that, and now that he had learned to run, Yassen wondered how any children survived to grow up.

The house had been toddler-proofed to the best of their ability. That only meant that Alex had to put a marginal bit of effort into endangering himself.

“He’s learning,” Helen said after she caught Alex the moment before he could face-plant in a flowerbed. The roses, of course, not the much softer asters. She seemed to have a sixth sense for her son’s taste for trouble. “Children take a while to learn self-preservation.”

Alex squirmed out of her grip, spotted Yassen, and immediately held up his arms. 

“Mine!” he demanded firmly. 

Yassen felt his lips twitch but obeyed. The child was getting heavy but it was still no problem to lift him high enough to settle him on his shoulders. Small hands gripped Yassen’s own but there was no fear or tension. Just an utter trust in Yassen’s ability to keep him safe.

Yassen still wasn’t sure what to make of that sometimes. He had seen the child grow from restless baby to energetic toddler and even then … sometimes that unwavering trust still caught him wrong-footed. He was a killer. Hunter was a killer. How long would that unwavering trust in them remain? Yassen didn’t want to consider it. 

“I’ll make some lunch,” Helen said. There was a ghost of fond amusement in her voice. “He’ll be hungry soon enough.”

Yassen nodded. Alex tugged insistently on his hand and Yassen obediently followed directions as they began their tour of the garden and Alex watched from his vantage point.

Eventually, reality would intrude. For now, Yassen had a toddler to entertain.

* * *

Yassen was twenty-two the first time Hunter let him go on a job alone. He still looked over Yassen’s plans and all his research first, but he allowed him to go. 

It felt … very different from his graduation with SCORPIA, Yassen decided. It was no less of a turning point but he had several years of training compared to mere months and Hunter’s education had been thorough.

Yassen felt calm. Confident. Not overconfident, Hunter had made sure to stop that in its tracks, but prepared. He treated the job with the seriousness it deserves and never once let down his guard, and he returned two weeks later to Hunter’s calm approval. 

“It’s not the sort of thing anyone should congratulate you for,” he said when Yassen had settled down and Helen had sent Alex to bed. “But you did well. A good, clean job. Don’t get cocky, don’t start to slack, don’t believe your own reputation, and never ignore your instincts. Listen to that, and you’ll do just fine.” 

“Just like that?” That sounded – strangely simple.

Hunter shrugged. “I trust you to stay alive. The rest is stuff you need to learn on your own through practical experience. No one can teach you that sixth sense, only experience will do that. Just don’t get killed. Alex would never forgive you, and I’d have to hunt down whoever did it.”

SCORPIA wouldn’t have bothered. SCORPIA wouldn’t have cared, just that they had lost a useful weapon, not about Yassen himself.

He didn’t say thank you. With Hunter, he doubted he needed to, either.

* * *

The Berlin Wall fell in November of eighty-nine. 

John Rider watched from the comfort of their Geneva home as world politics shifted. It did not come without warning – there had been unrest in the Eastern Bloc for months, for years – but the sheer speed was beyond anything he had expected.

Alex was asleep. On their TV, reports from Berlin ran across the screen over and over again. 

None of them spoke. Helen watched as he did, with the somewhat distant fascination of someone who knew they saw history in the making but had no personal investment in it. John had only ever briefly been on the wrong side on the Iron Curtain on MI6 business. Helen had never been closer than Frankfurt. 

Yassen, though … 

John glanced over but the kid’s expression was unreadable. There was something in his eyes, though, a ghost of dark satisfaction, and John thought he understood.

The regime in Moscow had taken everything from Yassen. His parents, his family, his home, his friends. His name. His very identity. Yasha Gregorovich did not exist, nor did Estrov, or any of the hundred or more unfortunate souls who had lived there once. 

And now the Wall had fallen. The regime would fall with it. History had shifted. 

It wasn’t all good, of course. Political upheaval like that meant competition. The bastards on SCORPIA’s executive board had been right when they saw the writing on the wall and left to create their own lucrative futures, but most others probably hadn’t even suspected something that monumental and certainly not that swiftly.

There would be competition, a lot of trained killers from the Eastern Bloc that no longer had a powerful government to sponsor them or who simply saw a lucrative career in the West, and he needed to be aware of that. Him and Yassen both.

Some of that competition would be killed fast enough, too used to government backing to manage alone. SCORPIA and her like would recruit some of them. A few would be skilled and stubborn enough to remain freelance. 

For now, though, John simply watched as the future changed.

* * *

With sudden, easy access to the Soviet Union, the criminal world around John and Yassen saw a flood of weapons on the market. Killers, too, like John had predicted, but unlike those, that sudden, easy access to Soviet supplies was a welcome change.

It had never been an issue to get what they needed but John always appreciated alternatives and sometimes a Soviet weapon just made a different sort of statement. 

Much more important to John, though, was the disappearance of Nikita Zhernakov, one of the twelve founding members of SCORPIA. 

The details were scarce. The man had vanished without a trace and while he was presumed dead, no one actually had any proof. If SCORPIA did, or it had been an inside job, John heard nothing about it, not even a whisper. 

John didn’t know the current state of the executive board. He wasn’t up to date on SCORPIA politics. He had no idea of what the man had even been working on.

What mattered was that SCORPIA’s board was down to eleven and that Zhernakov’s disappearance would hopefully give them something else to focus on. And if the political unrest in the Eastern Bloc would get a few more of them killed, well, John wouldn’t complain.

* * *

Helen and Yassen never acted like mother and son. No one ever questioned it and Helen wasn’t surprised. On paper she was James’ stepmother, a woman who had only entered his life when he was twelve. The age difference between Séamus and James was small enough that they acted more like brothers than father and son at times and Caroline was in many ways more the older sister to James than the mother she was to Alex. 

She suspected Yassen was much more comfortable with that role, too. There was a childhood of trauma hidden beneath Yassen’s unruffled exterior, a thousand reminders of the family he had lost, and Helen had no intention of trying to replace his parents. They had died to give their son a chance to survive. Helen did what she could to help him live now. 

John believed they owed Yassen their lives. Helen was inclined to agree. Even if she hadn’t, this was still the young man – boy – that John had taken under his wing, the boy who had covered for them in Paris, the young man who had become Alex’s brother in every way that mattered, and she genuinely cared about him.

It was an odd life they led now but one she had slowly grown used to. Her job and marriage to John Rider meant she knew how to keep secrets and to live a lie. Their years in Geneva had given her enough practice that it had become her new state of normal.

From the outside, they were a normal family. Not quite the perfect nuclear family like most around – though a lot was appearances; Helen was observant enough to have picked up on quite a few issues in their social circle – but good enough to fit in.

Those things that wouldn’t quite match the image they worked so hard to keep up … well. No one had to know about those. 

The safe room in the basement. The weapons in every room. The extensive surveillance and security. The packed bag ready to grab if they had to leave at a moment’s notice; documents and papers, two guns and ammunition, any necessary medicine, and enough cash to last them for at least a month. That bag was checked every two months at a minimum; as was the bag in the car with a change of clothes, food, snacks, and water, and extra weapons and ammunition. 

John Rider never forgot what sort of people might one day target them. Neither did Helen or Yassen.

* * *

John ran into the first serious conflict of interests almost five years after he left London and MI6 behind. He had known it was only a matter of time. With his old life on one side and John himself on … well, whatever side paid him, it had been unavoidable.

The meeting took place in a mostly deserted East German village. Well, simply German now, John’s mind added. The Wall was a thing of the past but the marks it had left still lingered. He would have called it the height of stupidity to meet with a Soviet defector on Soviet soil -

_\- Russian, **Russian** defector, on **Russian** soil -_

\- But it was also the sort of audacity that would make most other sensible people write it off as an option. 

John supposed it was as good of an idea as any other, except that the mission was compromised. That happened, intelligence work was never safe. Maybe someone had tattled, maybe someone had been careless, maybe it had been pure, dumb luck. What mattered was that someone had found out in enough time to hire Hunter – barely, it had been a tight schedule, and he had charged for that kind of risk – and late January found him watching a rundown little German village through the scope of a high-end sniper rifle from a significant distance away.

It was right on the limit for the sort of shot even Hunter could manage but he didn’t dare move closer. The place was too quiet, too deserted. Any closer and he might very well not be able to get away again.

Hunter had the file on the Russian target and recognised the man even through the slight disguise someone had attempted. Dyed hair and the lack of a beard was not enough to change the target’s features all that much. 

The MI6 agents had been unknown to the client but John recognised the primary one immediately.

Ian Rider had barely bothered with a disguise as well and something in John flared dark and angry. Four years after John had been forced to go underground with his family, had been forced to leave everything behind just for a chance to survive, and Ian still treated the whole thing like a god damn game.

It didn’t change John’s objectives. Kill the defector. Kill as many people with him as possible. John assumed Ian would be smart enough to take cover after the first shot. It wouldn’t even look suspicious when John failed to target him, then.

John didn’t recognise the other agents and he wasn’t sure that would actually have stopped him, anyway. He just focused on the small group of people, found his primary target, and rested his finger lightly on the trigger. 

Someone had grown lax about security since the Iron Curtain fell. John doubted that would be the case for much longer.

* * *

Ian Rider returned home after extensive debriefings. The past four days had been a disaster, starting with their mission. They had lost their contact, most of their people at the meeting, the intel they were supposed to get, and they had no idea who had been behind it or why. Russian agents? Private ones? They had found no evidence, no trace, nothing.

He opened the mailbox, still lost in thought. As a result, it took him a few seconds to spot the postcard.

Ian hesitated. Picked it up after long seconds and recognised the image immediately. Berlin. The same city he had just flown out of. The handwriting on the back was achingly familiar, too.

_I did the brotherly thing this time. Get that careless again, and next time I’ll take the shot._

It came back in a flood; adrenaline and fear and panic, blood and failure and _death_ and Ian took a deep breath. Slow. Steady. Breathed out again, a little calmer. 

Maybe he had been a little too careless. Maybe he had been a little too drunk on the easy of their mission until then. He didn’t know how John had found them, he didn’t know who had hired him – _and his brother was one of the best contract killers in the world, fucking hell_ – but someone had fucked up. 

Ian burned the postcard but kept the warning.

* * *

Yugoslavia disintegrated in slow motion. It came with more warning than the fall of the Berlin Wall had and took somewhat longer but it would be no less of a headache for John and Yassen in some ways.

More competition. More uncertainty as the criminal underworld adjusted to the sudden influx of uprooted criminals and new opportunities. War was profitable but John stayed clear of it and had made sure Yassen knew to do the same. The risks were too large for a single foreigner, the situation too unstable.

Eventually things would settle down. The underworld would find a new balance. Weapons and other supplies would find an easy market, much like things from the former Soviet Union had done after the Wall.

John watched. Then he went back to work. Yugoslavia would sort itself out or it wouldn’t. Whatever the outcome, they were far enough away that it didn’t matter.

Ian could go save the world. John Rider had a family to protect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been somewhat busy the last few weeks so this is a bit shorter than planned, since I didn't get nearly as far as I had hoped for this chapter.


	4. Part IV: Geneva (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in chapter 3, the art is by the talented wolfern from ff.net!

Séamus Morrison travelled often. His wife was used to it.

John and Yassen rarely worked together any more and Helen was faintly amused that they seemed to make a point that at least one of them was around on a regular basis. She didn't mind. She understood the long weeks and months away, just as she understood why they were a little protective, and the company was nice. She did have their social circle and the parents of Alex's playmates for company, but it was nice to have someone around she didn't have to lie to.

It was a bright, sunny April afternoon when Helen heard the door open and the soft, familiar sounds of her husband's footsteps across the hardwood floors. Strong arms wrapped around her and warm lips pressed a kiss against her neck.

"Missed you," John murmured into her hair.

Helen entwined her hand with his but didn't look away from the wide double doors. Yassen was outside, Alex carried on his shoulders as they enjoyed the warm spring sun.  _Her sons._  Or her son and whatever Yassen was comfortable with. He deserved much better than what he had been given and Helen's heart hurt for the orphan he had become and the years of pain that had followed. It was too easy to see Alex in his place.

Yassen shifted his grip. Pretended to almost drop the child on his shoulders. Alex shouted but there was laughter in his voice. 

It was warm enough for t-shirts. Warm enough for shorts. Helen suspected she would miss the winter cold again before summer even started.

"I expect you to be home in October," she said, less of a request and more a statement of fact.

"Hmm?"

"I would like you to be home for the birth of our child." She was three months along. John had just left on his most recent job when she had confirmed it. Five long weeks later, he was finally home again to share it with in person. It had been a painful echo of his months undercover in MI6's service and the wall of  _classified_  that had surrounded them.

John stilled against her. For long seconds, the only movement was the soft heat of his breath against her neck.

"We're having a baby," he finally said, a low note of wonder in his voice.

MI6 had robbed Helen of the chance to see his reaction to her first pregnancy in person. This time they couldn't. His grip tightened slightly, at once both infinitely gentle and tight enough that she suspected he never wanted to let her go again, and his other hand drifted down to rest against her stomach.

There were so many things he had missed out on the first time. John hadn't been there when she had first stared at the positive pregnancy test, hadn't been there the first time she felt Alex kick, hadn't been there to hear his heartbeat for the first time, hadn't been there to help prepare Alex's nursery. This time – this time he would be.

"I'm due on the eighth," she said. She expected he could do the mental maths about events leading up to that just as well as she could. Mid-January. Right before he had left on a job on short notice, and things hadn't quieted down much since.

"I'll be home so much, you'll get sick of me," John promised.

Helen smiled, a little wryly. "That's the morning sickness."

Another thing he had missed out on the first time; stupid little things she suddenly couldn't eat or couldn't live without, the urge to turn around and make a joke about how much milk she was drinking but there hadn't been anyone there, and in that moment she hated Alan Blunt with an anger she hadn't felt in years.

She tensed slightly, the only reaction she showed. John still picked up on it and his grip eased slightly, carefully, like he was worried he had held her too tightly.

"Okay?"

"Just – Blunt."

Helen didn't offer details. With John, she didn't need to.

"Yeah." His answer was little more than a breath. Helen had missed out on a lot during her first pregnancy. John, deep undercover with SCORPIA and one mistake from death – he had risked the one meeting, the few hours all they could afford, and then he had been forced to lock it all away again. Helen had been well into her third trimester before John had been able to allow himself to embrace the fact that he was about to be a father.

For a while they just stood there, the two of them, and watched as Yassen carried Alex around the garden and looked like nothing more than a pair of brothers. Finally John broke the silence.

"So I'm thinking camo for the nursery."

"Don't even try it."

John laughed, open and genuine, and a small part of Helen that she had carried with her since Paris finally started to heal.

* * *

Alex took the news well enough. A little impatient – nine months was  _forever_  to a five-year-old – and a little baffled but mostly he was immensely proud that he was about to be a big brother.

Immensely proud and – much to Helen's fond amusement – immensely protective, too. He brought her water, he left a mountain of pillows on her bed, and when he apparently decided she had been on her feet for too long, his disapproving look reminded her so much of her own expression that she wasn't sure if she should hug him or laugh.

She settled for both and carried on like she always had.

John hovered when he was home. Yassen was almost as bad. Helen Rider, endlessly pragmatic, just let them.

* * *

In one world, Ian Rider left a five-year-old Alex Rider alone with a housekeeper for three weeks for the first time.

In another, Alex Morrison watched his newborn little sister in her crib. He was a little underwhelmed. Matilda Morrison had spent most of the time so far sleeping and eating.

"You weren't much bigger than that when I saw you the first time," James told him.

Alex glanced over. His brother was home for a whole month to meet the new member of the family and help out. Alex mainly cared that he was  _back_. James was the coolest brother ever.

"She's  _tiny._ "

"You were, too," James said. He offered Matilda his little finger and she latched on to it without ever opening her eyes. "She'll need you to watch out for her."

Alex peered a little closer at her. She still looked tiny to him but he guessed that made sense. She was his little sister, after all. That was all right, then. He was a big brother now and he was going to be as awesome as it as James was.

* * *

Séamus Morrison was a devoted father, adoring husband, and competent investor. He made enough to pay for their house, for an expensive private preschool for their youngest son, and for his wife to stay at home, first with their son and now with their newborn daughter … which, in their social circles, made them solidly middle class.

He was a charming man with a keen sense of humour, helpful and generous … and he was also, it was generally agreed, probably the most absent-minded person in Geneva. Vacations were planned at the last moment -

("Well, we don't know where we want to go until then, anyway, so it would be a waste to plan it sooner. And you know I can never make up my mind. Caroline is a saint, she really is.")

\- He was either ridiculously early or embarrassingly late -

("I just wanted to be sure I was there on time. There was construction work last time, you know, and it took forever to find a way around."

"… It was one street that was closed.  _One._  You've lived here for five years!")

\- And he was only a casual acquaintance of 'sense of direction'.

("You've driven here at least weekly for y _ears."_

"I thought I was supposed to turn left. I did last time."

"You got lost last time, too."

"… I got there eventually. You know, I found this lovely cafe on the way; you should visit it one day.")

He was, however – as it was also agreed – very good with numbers. It took him three months to remember the names of his son's best friends, but he could rattle off the exchange rates of about a dozen different currencies and had anniversary presents planned for his wife at least three years in advance.

("It's customised; all very lovely. There's a waiting list, though."

"For  _two years?_ "

"… It's Caroline's favourite.")

It was also generally agreed that Caroline Morrison was quite possibly the most patient woman in all of Switzerland.

* * *

It was always bemusing to Yassen to visit the Rider family in Geneva. He had embraced his own new identity as James Morrison but Hunter, Hunter seemed to  _delight_  in being the harmless, absent-minded family man.

It was an excellent cover. A touch of plastic surgery – enough to change his appearance slightly but still keep it obvious he was Alex's father; enough to change his fingerprints – and a solid backstory. Yassen, a trained killer himself, recognised the coiled predator lurking right beneath the surface but he doubted most others would ever suspect a thing.

Séamus Morrison was a harmless man. Charming and sporty, genuinely kind, and couldn't hurt a fly. Hunter beneath, every bit as lethal as the first time Yassen had seen him … Hunter still watched and waited, ready to act in an instant.

"You never tire of the disguise," Yassen observed.

Hunter shrugged. "It's an easy one. You can make up a ton of excuses why you don't want to share your holiday plans or travel the same route or be predictable, or you can be an easily distracted geek, more focused on his investments and numbers than silly little real world obligations like arriving on time or figuring out the way to the nearest grocery store. Séamus is harmless. No one looks twice at him. He bears some superficial resemblance to Hunter but he's greying, his nose and cheek bones are a different, and his body language takes care of any lingering suspicions."

Yassen supposed that made sense. Helen had adapted easily and Alex and Matilda had known nothing else. Yassen himself wouldn't have the patience to keep up that sort of pretence but then, Hunter was a very different person, too. There had been a reason why he had been so successful as an undercover agent.

Hunter gestured towards the intricately carved wooden cabinet in the corner of the office. "Now grab a glass and tell me what you've been up to."

Predictable. Familiar. Yassen didn't mind. Just picked a bottle of good whiskey, poured a glass, and settled down for the afternoon.

* * *

Alex Rider was barely six years old when he learned to shoot.

It was not something Helen approved of. It wasn't something she was about to veto, either. Their small sanctuary had never been a permanent thing. Sooner or later, someone would find them, and while she desperately hoped he would never need to know how to handle a weapon, she also knew there were no guarantees in their situation. If nothing else, he had to learn to respect the weapons they kept in the house, even if they were well out of reach of curious, young hands.

Any one of them could have taught him. Even Helen was a competent shooter these days. In the end, though, the job fell to John.

The shooting range was silent. It was a small, private one, and they were entirely alone. They wanted no distractions and it had been no issue to pay for a few hours to themselves before it would normally open on a perfectly ordinary, quiet Tuesday. They would arrange for the same once or twice a month until Alex was comfortable with a gun, then however often it would take to keep that training sharp.

Helen watched from behind heavy glass, Yassen by her side, as John patiently went over gun rules and safety and showed Alex how to take the gun apart before he ever made even a single step towards actually firing it. She couldn't hear anything, the sound-proofing good enough that even the actual gunshots would be muted, but John had taught her to shoot as well. She knew how it went.

Matilda was asleep in a sling, snuggled against her mother's chest. Helen had wanted to be there with Alex, some silent acknowledgement that while she didn't like it, she still supported it, but she hadn't been willing to leave Matilda with a nanny, either. It had been different back in London with Alex. Now, in Geneva and hunted by … more people than Helen liked to consider, Alex hadn't left her side until he started preschool. It would be the same with Matilda if Helen had anything to say about it.

For now, though, Matilda's soft breaths were a quiet reassurance. A reminder that for now, they were safe. For now, Alex's lessons were just a precaution.

It was a little strange to watch from the outside and remember her own lessons. John had taught at SCORPIA's assassin school, too. She wondered what he had been like back then. She got the impression that his students had looked up to him, but assassins had very different standards than the rest of the world.

"I was eight when I first fired a gun."

Yassen's quiet voice broke the silence. Helen knew snippets of his past, bits and pieces he had shared over the years, but this was new to her. She didn't rush him. Yassen rarely spoke of his childhood. If he wanted to now, she would do what she could to encourage it, even if that meant to simply just listen.

"Military training was compulsory in school."

Somehow, Helen was not surprised. She tried to imagine Yassen at eight, blond and blue-eyed and so awfully young, and the image of him with a gun felt almost painful. It was bad enough to see Alex learn. That, at least, was something they all hoped he would never need. Yassen and everyone else in his school had prepared for war.

A heartbeat. Another. The seconds stretched on. Helen wondered what Yassen saw as he watched the lesson. The differences between military training and the assassin's lethal skills now put to use to teach a child how to shoot.

"My best friend could strip down an AK-47 in twelve seconds. He could reassemble it in fifteen. He cared little about school but he was very good with guns."

Silence. Something told Helen he wasn't done and so she didn't speak but merely watched her son and her husband. The gun, a perfect fit for Helen's hand, looked enormous in Alex's, and her heart twisted both for Alex and the child that Yassen had been. Her hand drifted to stroke Matilda's hair reassuringly, soft and fine under her touch.

"… He died of anthrax," Yassen finally said. "We escaped the soldiers. We could not escape the spores."

_We._ Yassen, with the experimental vaccine in his blood, had lived. His friend had not. If they had fled together, Yassen had very likely seen him die. Helen had enough medical experience to be able to imagine that in awful detail. Most likely the two of them had been the same age. Fourteen. No more than children.

She didn't ask. She knew he wouldn't answer. If Yassen Gregorovich wished to talk, he did so in his own time.

Instead, she spoke herself.

"I had already worked in the classified hospital ward for several years when I met John. We had an agent admitted with acute radiation syndrome. We never heard the details but the exact circumstances wouldn't have mattered much, anyway. We did everything we could. That only meant that it took him a week to die, and not just a few days."

There had been no visitors beyond MI6. No cards, no flowers. No worried loved ones. No one who knew the truth. No one but MI6 and those few people who had cared for him in his last days.

"The official cause of death was a boating accident. Lost at sea, the body never recovered. I never found out if he had family. Most field agents don't, but …"

She trailed off and didn't need to finish the sentence. One of the exceptions to that rule was right in front of them, teaching his son the correct way to handle a gun.

Helen's hand drifted down to rest on Matilda's back and hold her a little tighter. If John had been killed on some mission or another, she doubted they would have ever been told the truth. She would never have believed whatever explanation they would have been given, however realistic it might have sounded. She had too much experience with the intelligence world for that. Though at least MI6 didn't wipe out entire villages to hide their crimes.

In a perfect world, Yassen would still have his parents and his best friend. In a perfect world, they would still have lived in London, John and Alex and Matilda and her, and MI6 would have been something from spy books and films and not the entity that ruined their lives. In a perfect world, Alex would never have needed to touch a gun. In a perfect world, there would have been no SCORPIA, no Alan Blunt, no Hunter and Cossack.

A decade ago, maybe Helen would have allowed herself to linger on the thought. These days, older, harder, and far more pragmatic, she pushed the fleeting thought aside again. They couldn't afford the should-have-beens. Whatever it took, her family would be safe. That was all that mattered.

* * *

Like most intelligence agencies, MI6 had assassins on staff. It was an unpleasant truth, perhaps, but also a simple matter of convenience and national security. Tulip had been responsible for the section – small, isolated, and heavily classified – for eight years and that was part of why she had been made John Rider's handler as well. In another year or so, she expected Agent Crawley to be able to take over and ease the workload that had been part of the package as Alan Blunt's deputy. For now, the man remained her shadow as he learned the ropes and Tulip, like it or not, was MI6's final authority on their in-house 'consultants'.

It also gave her the unusual ability to, every once in a while, tell Alan Blunt no.

"We don't have the necessary skill on staff." Tulip didn't bother to be diplomatic about it. Alan was not a man who appreciated wasted time. "It is an exceptionally good opportunity and we likely won't get it again, but that doesn't change the fact that we don't have anyone good enough for the job."

Alan blinked, the only reaction he bothered with. The rest of him was as grey as his office and only years of experience and a sharp eye let Tulip read him well enough to spot a flicker of – something. Not annoyance, he rarely bothered with that, either, but … something along those lines, perhaps.

"We did not train them for mediocrity."

Part annoyance, part displeasure in Alan Blunt terms. Tulip expected their instructors would be summoned for a meeting soon, though she planned to stop that line of thought before it could go any further. Their instructors had done their best. They couldn't work miracles.

"You're not asking for competence. You're asking for skills and training possessed by perhaps a dozen assassins in the world, not counting those employed by other agencies. Most of those are either employed by another organisation or are at the very least on retainer for one."

"Agent Russell?"

"In another two or three years, maybe." Tulip could be as blunt as Alan himself. She had high expectations of Russell and he had impressed her so far, but he still had years to go. "It's not just training. It's adaptability, personality, and experience. We suspect Usenko is SVR. We never had solid proof he was KGB but the likelihood is there. Even with their training, it took ten years to reach that level of skill and instinct for the job. Very few reach such skill on their own. Heron? SCORPIA. Cypress? Glaive. Manansala? Winston Yu's snakehead. You're not asking for an agent trained for assassination. You're asking for the sort of skills that go for millions."

Silence. The faint annoyance lingered, then faded and left nothing but grey behind. Tulip didn't speak but let Alan consider the situation. Finally he spoke.

"I expect you have an alternative, then."

Alan Blunt wanted potential solutions from his closest people, not helplessness in the face of adversity. Tulip was used to that, too.

"John Rider." Alan did not speak and Tulip continued. "He has the skills, he's reliable, and he is perhaps the only one of that calibre that we can state with absolute certainty is genuinely independent. Cossack, perhaps. He's skilled but not quite at John's level yet. Offer the job to John. Make sure the payment is suitable. It will still be less than the cost of several dead agents or the political fallout if we're caught assassinating foreign politicians."

Tulip wondered what went through Alan's mind at the reminder. John Rider – Hunter – was still a sore spot for Tulip sometimes. She wondered if Alan had enough emotions to feel the same. A sore spot of conflicting emotions; sometimes the pang of betrayal, sometimes the muted ghost of failure, but mostly just weariness. There had been a lot of mistakes made, most of them by MI6.

The seconds ticked on. The silence in the office would have been suffocating if she hadn't been used to it. Finally he nodded. Once, but all Tulip needed.

"Approved."

* * *

The first time MI6 hired John felt – odd.

A little weird, a little awkward, a little pensive. A little like he was finally, permanently closing the last open door to his past. It hadn't been open on more than a crack for years, anyway, but it had still been there. The tiny thought that if everything went completely wrong, maybe MI6 was still an option.

Maybe they still were but he wasn't John Rider, star MI6 agent any more. The person that MI6 had hired was Hunter, one of the best assassins in the world and one of the very few freelance ones of his level. That list pretty much came down to him and Yassen.

They knew who he was, of course. That didn't make it any less weird. Still, it was just a business transaction. Be cautious, be suspicious, never let down your guard. MI6 was just as capable of betraying him as any other client.

Hunter took the job.


	5. Part V: Geneva (IV)

SCORPIA remained a constant worry in John's mind. The prize on him remained as it was, flatteringly and inconveniently large. It didn't increase, which at least implied they weren't actively hunting him, but it didn't go away, either. Not that John had expected it. He had thoroughly screwed over the executive board. Even if revenge wasn't a factor, and it most definitely was, the fact remained that SCORPIA could not afford to let him get away with that. Not without giving an impression of weakness they couldn't risk.

SCORPIA's bounty was the largest but it was by no means the only one these days. Any sufficiently skilled assassin made enemies. Often it wasn't even personal but simply that he was a danger, or in some assassins' cases that they worked for a competitor. It also meant that he got tangled up in politics despite his best efforts to avoid it. Glaive had started to court him – patient and low-key, but they still made no secret of the fact that they would offer him a generous retainer's fee. Several drug cartels had tried the same, though he suspected they wanted his reputation more than his skills. John had turned them all down, very carefully and extremely politely, and that seemed to have gone all right. An assassin with a large organisation to back them could afford to make enemies, though it still wasn't wise. Someone genuinely freelance like John … well. His experiences with SCORPIA's executive board politics came in handy, if nothing else.

It would be a lie to say he wasn't tempted by some of those offers. Companies like Glaive could offer protection of Helen and Alex and Matilda that John couldn't on his own. Unfortunately, it would also mean getting tangled up in not just his own politics but those of his backer as well, and SCORPIA was growing into a behemoth that few were willing to cross. SCORPIA was not currently hunting him. He had no delusions that things would stay that way if he joined up with one of their competitors. An independent contractor was one thing. A competitor … SCORPIA's reputation wouldn't allow it to pass unpunished.

So John kept up the careful balancing act and almost unavoidable drew Yassen in with him.

Cossack at twenty had been a promising student and future assassin but SCORPIA had dozens of those. Cossack at twenty-six, far more skilled and with six years of experience and Hunter's training to draw on …  _that_  Cossack was a valuable asset, and people knew it. John was not particularly surprised, then, when Yassen settled down in his study, a peculiar look on his face, and opened the conversation with the words John had almost expected to hear sooner or later.

"SCORPIA contacted me. They offered to wipe the slate clean. No debt, no exclusive contract, no resentment, but an offer to return to their employment on good terms and on generous conditions."

"For what it's worth, I'd say they mean it," John said, his voice carefully neutral. Yassen did not take well to being pushed, perceived or otherwise, and certainly not when there was so much baggage to deal with. He didn't think Yassen was interested but that didn't mean he couldn't have a lot of conflicting emotions about it. Helen and Alex and Matilda and John himself was family to Yassen these days, but SCORPIA's offer was security.

And, John knew just as well – if Yassen turned it down, they would not take it kindly. Yassen had to know that, too.

"I betrayed them." Yassen's voice gave little away. Mostly thoughtfulness as he worked through all the implications.

Which was true, John knew, but 'SCORPIA does not forgive' was only true to a certain extent. The board could be pragmatic people, too.

"When it all comes down to it, you were twenty and my student. They want revenge on me more than they want to be petty about you, and even more, they want a share of the profits. If they can get you back, on good terms and working for them – your reputation has already grown by magnitudes. Another five years, and I expect you'll be among the best in the world. Better than me. Better, I think, than any of the biggest players right now. SCORPIA knows that. You're valuable, Yassen. Extremely so. With their extensive influence and your skills, it would child's play to move you into position as the best assassin in the world. They would claim a percentage to send clients your way – probably a very reasonable percentage, too, to keep you happy – which would generate a nice, steady profit, with little risk or effort required. Far more valuable would be the boost to their own reputation that would give them. The chance to strike at me by luring my apprentice and former partner back to their service is just a bonus."

Silence settled. Yassen didn't speak but worked quietly through John's words. He was a clever kid – and sure, he was twenty-six already, but John doubted Yassen would ever stop being a kid to his mind – but he didn't have the extensive experience with mercenary politics that John did. He didn't have the personality for it, either, though John was sure he could learn if he had to. Yassen was an immensely practical person. Sometimes he forgot just how much people like SCORPIA's executive board or the upper echelons of the intelligence world revelled in their games.

"And I'm sure they would conveniently forget to mention that my first target would be you."

Yassen's tone of voice would reveal nothing to an outsider and barely more than that to John, but it was still enough. Annoyance. Faint disgust. Yassen Gregorovich had little patience for politics and even less respect for those who thrived on that sort of thing.

"To be fair, it probably wouldn't be. They'd want you happy to work for them. Maybe they would offer the job some years down the line, but most likely not. Not unless you in some way indicated you might want it. They're courting you, Yassen. Not the other way around. They won't risk anything to mess that up."

"Unless I refuse, of course."

John shrugged. That went without saying.

"You'll be a target no matter what. Right now it's partially because of me. In five, ten years, when I retire, you'll be enough of a threat on your own that I'll be just a footnote in your file. No, SCORPIA won't take kindly to your refusal, but that goes for anyone they try to court. If you're good enough to be worth that kind of effort, you're enough of a danger to be worth taking out if you refuse, even without the implied insult. They can afford to be polite about our association. They're still hunting me but not actively so since I haven't done anything to cross them since I left. If that stays the case, they'll probably quietly stop the hunt when I retire. Write me off and just pretend it never happened. Let people draw their own conclusions, maybe that we have a deal or that maybe I always low-key worked for them and made it look like I didn't for political reasons."

Silence again. Yassen didn't seem to be in any rush and John let him take whatever time he needed. Yassen had obviously made his decision already, but the stakes were still high enough that John wasn't surprised at the long stretch of silence. The many unspoken what-ifs that had to go through his mind. John had done most of the talking but he doubted Yassen's mind had ever stopped going though the potential courses of action during their conversation.

"So what do you suggest?"

"Refuse," John answered. " _Politely_. Don't piss them off more than you have to. Don't make it personal. You'll still make an enemy out of them, but at least it'll be purely professional."

And in their line of work, that was really the best anyone could hope for.

* * *

Alex Rider was seven years old the first time he spent his summer holidays with Yassen. Well, part of his summer holidays, anyway. Two weeks of it while Hunter and Helen took the opportunity to check up on their safe-houses.

The decision to agree to the arrangement had been easier than Yassen had expected. Alex always wanted more time than Yassen usually had to give – irregular visits in-between numerous jobs – and Russian was on the list of languages that would be useful for Alex to know in the future. Time with Yassen would build a good foundation. In time, perhaps, with practice and sufficient instruction, it would be good enough to pass for native and so add another country to the list of place that Alex would be able to adapt to if the need arose.

There were a lot of places Yassen could have picked in Russia, and certainly now that it was far more open than it had been in the old days. With a pilot licence and enough money that the charter of a private helicopter for a week and a half didn't even make him blink, he chose Kamchatka. Alex liked the outdoors and would undoubtedly be fascinated by the geological activity, and Yassen enjoyed the nature and chance to fly. It would immerse the boy in the language as well, though that was merely a bonus. It was a remote location that attracted few tourists. Alex would have little opportunity to speak English.

The airport was small, the hotel serviceable, but the helicopter – a military model kept in excellent condition – was exactly what Yassen had wanted. Large, powerful, reliable, and with plenty of room for supplies, it would do just fine for a week and a half removed from civilisation.

Alex had already been restless, impatient on the flight there and not much better the night they spent at the hotel. At the sight of the helicopter, however, he stopped and stared, eyes wide and impossibly bright. Yassen imagined what his own reaction would have been to the same at that age, and the thought brought a muted sting of – something he did his best to keep suppressed. Loss. Bitterness. The quiet hope that against all odds – SCORPIA and MI6 and everything – perhaps Alex and Matilda would get some imitation of a normal childhood. A normal life.

"You got us a  _helicopter,_ " Alex breathed.

" _Yes,_ " Yassen answered in Russian and saw Alex respond immediately, bright, inquisitive eyes turned to Yassen instead.  _"I got us a helicopter."_

" _Yes,_ " Alex repeated and sounded out the word. He had heard it when Yassen had talked with others in Russian but he was smart enough to realise what it meant that Yassen spoke it to him now, too. "Yes?"

It was a guess but Alex's voice was confident. Yassen merely nodded.

" _I got …_ " Alex continued but trailed off, the language too foreign and the sentence spoken too fast and too casually for him to be able to remember all of it.

" _I got us a helicopter,"_  Yassen repeated, first in Russian, then in English.

He could almost see Alex consider the unfamiliar sounds and listen for any resemblance with the languages he already spoke. He would find little, of course, but that would hardly matter. Yassen had high expectations of Alex's ability to learn Russian. It would take time, of course, an informal class alongside everything else he learned outside of school, but he had an exceptional ear for languages. Yassen planned to take advantage of that.

Reward him with flight lessons if he did particularly well, perhaps. An early start on lessons that Yassen already planned for the child when he grew older. For now, it was time to see just how much Alex could learn from a week and a half of Russian exposure.

* * *

In one world, Ian Rider hired Jack Starbright. She would become the closest thing Alex Rider had to a stable, adult influence.

In another, Ian Rider spent five months on an undercover mission, Jack Starbright returned to the States, and Alex Rider grew up in Geneva with a brother and sister – and two parents who were both only children.

* * *

John Rider travelled. Helen Rider was used to it. Seven years into their escape from London, it had become routine. She had adapted to weeks alone with Alex. She adapted to weeks alone with Alex as well as Matilda, too.

The security in their home had been designed to handle that situation. To the ever-present knowledge that John Rider had enemies, that Yassen had, too, and that Helen was one adult alone with two vulnerable children and an obvious target if anyone ever tracked them down.

The safe room. The weapons. The surveillance, and the doors and windows chosen to slow any attacker down, and the regular check that they were still ready to leave at a moment's notice, to leave their entire life behind with no warning at all, and -

\- seven years later, it was routine. Marked by the bitter, muted anger Helen still held against MI6, the quiet resignation that this would always be their life, but … routine.

That routine was broken an unremarkable Friday night in mid-September. John had left earlier that week and was now in South America. Yassen was in Europe, finishing up a job of his own. Alex and Matilda were asleep. For at least a brief while, Helen was entirely alone.

The alarm was more muted than most would expect, an insistent beeping rather than the ear-piercing alert that would trigger if she had gone to bed.

It was quiet. Low enough not to wake the children. It was also enough to make Helen still for a second before she got out of her chair, every instinct on high alert as adrenaline sent her heart racing and cold sweat clung to her skin.

There were false alarms sometimes. Mistakes happened. Not with this one, though. This was the back-up, the one that watched for any signs of tampering, and if that went off and the main system didn't -

\- They had company. Unwanted company.

The small screens were hidden away so they wouldn't draw attention. Helen opened the cabinet door that hid the surveillance set-up and found her fears confirmed. None of the screens were black, of course. That would have an amateur's mistake and Helen knew that the people who might one day come after them – who might just have – were anything but amateurs. The primary cameras – the obvious ones, the bait – looked fine and showed nothing but the sight she expected: the gardens and the driveway and the outside of the house, undisturbed in the cool autumn evening.

The secondary cameras – the redundant ones, the hidden ones – showed four masked figures working on the primary cameras in teams of two. Out of sight and fast enough that Helen would have had no chance to see anything wrong if John hadn't been cautious enough to plan for just that sort of thing.

It took her less than ten seconds to make a decision and turn the alarm off.

The intruders seemed intent to get inside unseen, There were numerous cameras and even past those, the men would need to get either a door or a window open, and those were heavily secured, too. Four people for a woman and two children, along with that careful approach – she had the dark suspicion that it wasn't an assassination team but a kidnapping one.

Helen picked up the phone and wasn't surprised that it was dead. The mobile was of no more use.

They could try to escape. Take their chances with the car. The driveway was clear. The fact that the phones were out and the people so professional would make it unlikely they hadn't taken that into account already, though. On foot was unthinkable, against four people and with Alex and Matilda to protect …

… No choice, then.

It had always been a possibility they had planned for. Helen had the training and it had always been an unspoken but very real fact that if they were attacked at home, the odds were that they would have to fight their way out. It was one of the downsides of hiding in relative anonymity. There was only so much they could do for security before it became blatantly obvious that their house was a fortress, and then people would start to wonder.

Helen took the stairs two steps at a time. Alex sat up the moment she entered his room, either because she had make no effort to be silent or just as likely because he had sensed something wrong.

"Mum?"

"Get your emergency bag, honey." Helen kept her voice calm and level. It would still not have been enough to keep most children calm but Alex had also trained for just this kind of situation since he was old enough to understand it. It had broken her heart the first few times. Now, she hoped it would be enough to keep them safe.

Alex didn't question it. He got out of bed, messy-haired and groggy and confused and with nothing but his pyjamas on, but he followed the instructions he had gone through so often in less dire circumstances.

Helen waited just long enough to see that he obeyed, then she stepped into Matilda's room. This time she made an effort to stay quiet and took the extra seconds to pick her daughter up as gently as possible and hum softly when the girl stirred.

_Please._

She had very little time and a lot to do, and an upset toddler would take time she already didn't have to spare.

Matilda settled down again. Alex waited for them in the hallway, a bag over his shoulder.

"Safe room," Helen told him. "Don't open the door for anyone but me, no matter how safe it looks. They messed with our cameras outside. You won't be able to trust them."

Alex nodded. There was no hesitation as he followed her downstairs and into the basement. The safe room wasn't exactly luxurious but it had everything needed to survive for days if necessary. And, Helen knew with a horrible, sinking feeling – It was Friday. Worst case scenario, no one would realise anything was wrong until Monday and Alex didn't show up at school. She didn't doubt they had planned it like that, too.

Four people, undoubtedly highly trained. Helen did have the element of surprise on her side, surprise and training. If she was fast enough … it was risky but not impossible.

Alex must have somehow caught on to her plan because he didn't argue when Helen carefully handed Matilda to him when they reached the safe room. Just swallowed and watched her with worried eyes.

"Be careful."

Helen hated SCORPIA for a lot of things. In that moment she could have killed every last one of them and never felt a flicker of remorse; for making her son worry like that, for making him  _have_ to worry, and for the knowledge that this was their life. That this would  _always_  be their life.

"I will," she promised and meant it with every part of her being.

She wanted to kiss his hair, wanted to hug him, but there was  _no time_  and a glance at the screens on the way down had shown that their unwanted visitors had finished with the cameras and moved on to one of the large windows furthest away from the living room and the lights she had on. Where it would be least likely she would spot them working.

She had ten minutes, maybe fifteen. They still seemed to favour the silent approach and that cut down on a number of methods they could use. They were also conveniently all at the same spot again.

Helen moved fast. There were weapons scattered all over the house in various little hiding spots and she knew all of them by heart. She didn't want to risk going outside on ground level but there were spots on the first floor that would give her the angles needed to take the shots.

She worked on routines trained into her subconsciousness through relentless repetition. Three guns. Suppressors. Ammunition. A quick check of the weapons. Sensible shoes. Another check of the cameras. Upstairs.

Helen didn't allow herself to think about what she was doing, too worried that she could freeze if she did. Four people, likely trained assassins like John and Yassen, but she had two children to worry about and no one for back-up and -

\- She took a slow breath. Stepped into John's office and across the room. The window unlocked easily and slid open without a sound. Helen stilled. For long seconds, she just listened. Then she slipped outside, slow and deliberate and without a sound as well.

Had John kept this sort of situation in mind even as they had chosen the house? Somewhere with enough spots and angles to give any defenders the upper hands? Somewhere with plenty of places to hide unseen cameras and other kinds of surveillance? It wouldn't surprise her.

The roof tiles were wet from dew and slightly slippery under her feet but nothing her shoes couldn't handle.

One careful step after the other, make herself as small of a figure as possible, keep an ear out for anything, no matter how insignificant, and never lose focus.

The gables had been a charming touch when they had bought the house, a bit of cheerful personality to an already charming home. Now one of them hid her approach and offered her the support needed for stable aim in a very unstable position.

It was silent around them. There was a faint, muted whisper of what was probably a party somewhere in the neighbourhood, dulled by distance and nature. The four intruders were as silent as Helen was, but they were expecting a housewife with two children. Not Hunter's wife.

Helen finally reached the right spot and realised that her estimate had been optimistic. The four worked fast. Another minute or two, and they would have the window removed. They kept an eye on everything around them in case of trouble but they were still too lax about it. A little too overconfident. They watched the dark gardens and the equally dark kitchen beyond the window. They didn't watch the roof.

Did they have backup somewhere? Helen didn't know. Would someone know the moment the first shot was fired? She didn't know that, either. Just eased into position, careful not to slip on the tiles. Mostly hidden by the gable roof and with the element of surprise on her side, it was the best chance she would get.

She brought the gun out.

_It changes you to kill someone deliberately,_  John's words whispered through her mind, memories of endless lessons from a master assassin.  _Even in self-defence._

A slow breath. She was almost out of time but she couldn't afford unsteady hands. Not now.

_Don't hesitate. Don't see them as human beings._

Helen knew what weapons did to the human body, probably better than even John did. He had a killer's training and experience, but Helen had spent her career patching people up again when they survived against all odds. She knew exactly what her gun would do.

_If they're SCORPIA's, they're trained killers. They wouldn't have survived their training if they had even a drop of compassion._

All four were within range. If she fired fast enough, none of them would have the chance to find cover or return fire.

_Don't show them any mercy. They wouldn't show you any. Not you, not Alex, not even Matilda._

Helen thought of her babies, alone in the safe room and with no idea of when –  _if_  – she would be back, and she pushed aside any other thought but their safety.

Steady. Aim.

_Don't hesitate._

Helen fired four times in quick succession, just enough time between each to find her next target. The first round was – sharper than she expected, the recoil somehow  _real_  in a way it wasn't when it was just the shooting range, but she didn't allow it to stop her.

Even with a suppressor, the sound was horribly loud to her ears. The first of the men collapsed, the second close behind. The third and fourth started to move, their reflexes good enough to understand that they were under attack even if they hadn't consciously started to analyse the situation yet. They were fast but they had everything against them. The surroundings, their unfamiliarity with the terrain, Helen's training. In any other case, she would have had no chance. Now it was just enough to tip the odds in her favour.

It took mere seconds before silence settled again. It had felt like eternity.

The four bodies on the ground didn't move. There were dark spots on the terrace that she didn't want to think about; thick, metallic stains that would probably take forever to remove.

Had anyone heard the shots? They had deliberately found a house a bit removed from everything else, so hopefully not. She could not afford to deal with official interference now. They had to leave, they had plans for this sort of thing, and the Swiss police did not figure in those plans.

Was there backup on its way even now? She couldn't know. All she could do was hope it wasn't the case.

Slightly more familiar with conditions on the roof, it didn't take her long to get back inside. There was nothing in the office they couldn't afford to lose; nothing in the entire house they couldn't afford to lose. It had always been a risk that they would one day have to flee with nothing. It still hurt, the horrible thought that this was seven years of memories, their  _home_ , and … this was the end of it. Alex's toys, Matilda's nursery, their books,  _everything –_  it would be gone. The photo albums were copies, the originals and a second set kept in separate bank vaults with the rest of their most valuable belongings, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

There was nothing she could do about it. She had to focus on survival now. Push it aside. The loss and the four lives she had just taken, and – everything. She could break down later when she didn't have two children that depended on her.

Helen stopped briefly in the kitchen. She found the Eiffel Tower magnet in the mess on the fridge door – a hideous ceramic souvenir thing that John had brought home along with a number of other more or less tasteless additions to the décor – and moved it on top of the note with the emergency numbers instead.

She grabbed the emergency bag from the closet and added the mobile phone to it on her way to the safe room. They had a spare and a charger in the bag already but she was almost sure that the mysterious malfunction would vanish as soon as they got away from the house. She could always use an extra phone.

Emergency message to John and Yassen. Bag. Weapons. Phone.

_Don't think. Just move._

Helen vanished downstairs again, into the basement and the safe room. The door was closed but it opened when she waved towards the hidden camera.

Alex still held Matilda, probably as much for his own comfort as hers. His expression was grim and far more mature than any seven-year-old's should be.

"I'm fine," she said before he could ask. "We have to leave."

Alex nodded. Helen took Matilda again. The girl stirred and opened her eyes to stare groggily at Helen. Helen could see the moment the tiredness registered, the fact that she was awake and  _did not want to be_ , and she started talking before Matilda could cry.

"I know, baby, I know." Low and soothing, and it didn't matter if Matilda didn't understand what was happening, not if her voice helped calm her down again. "You can sleep as much as you want in the car, I promise, but we have to leave. We have to leave."

Helen could feel Matilda's body relax as she settled into groggy half-sleep again. She didn't have time for a tantrum, not now.

The brief walk through the house felt like forever. Helen kept expecting to hear the sound of sirens, or gunfire, or voices, but there was nothing but silence. Their home, warm and inviting just an hour before, felt hostile and alien now, like an armed intruder could be hiding in every shadow or behind every door.

Helen kept calm. Kept her grip on Matilda steady and even. Alex looked paler than usual but kept calm, too, and she was so proud of him that she could have cried. He should never have had to be but he managed better than most adults would have.

The garage was as silent as the rest of the house. Alex didn't wait for instructions but slid into his seat and buckled his seatbelt as Helen strapped Matilda into the toddler car seat. The two bags she put on the fourth seat within easy reach if she needed them.

It was still silent. They still had no company. They could have hours. They could have minutes. She had no way to tell.

The driveway still looked clear according to the cameras, though she couldn't be sure she could trust them. Not even the secondary ones.

Keys. Engine. Garage door. The sounds woke Matilda up with a cry, but Alex started talking to her, a low, steady stream of words to soothe her before Helen could. He was so much older than his seven years at that moment and he shouldn't have had to be; shouldn't have learned to understand the deadly seriousness of the situation they were in.

Helen took a deep breath to steady herself. The car was armoured. The windows were bulletproof. That would have to be good enough.

The drive to the actual road felt like it went on forever. Helen passed a large, dark van right by the entrance to their driveway. It had a logo from some expensive-looking carpentry company or another and seemed utterly abandoned. If Helen hadn't lived there, if she hadn't known beyond any doubt that they hadn't called the company, it would have looked perfectly at home.

There were four bodies on their terrace. How many people had been in that van? It was big. Big enough to fit four people easily … and probably four people along with three kidnapping victims, too, especially if two of them were children.

_Don't think. Just keep moving._

The neighbourhood was mostly quiet. There were lights on in some places, a few brightly lit houses with company over amidst the rest of them, but Helen met no one else on the short drive.

A glance in the mirror revealed that Matilda had fallen asleep again, her favourite stuffed toy held tight against her. Alex was still awake and met her glance, eyes wide and frightened but with a familiar, stubborn look on his face, scared and brave and determined, and he reminded her so much of John in that moment that she could have cried.

Neither of them spoke. Not when they left Geneva. Not when they reached the motorway. Helen finally stopped by a deserted rest area and found the mobile phone in the bag. As she had expected, it worked just fine now that they were away from their house.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she found the right number and she took several calming breaths before she actually called.

Yassen's phone rang five times before it went to his answering machine, much as Helen had expected.

"James, honey, it's Caroline. Would you get three bottles of your father's favourite white wine? The French one. The store here stopped carrying it and all we have left at home are four bottles of red. Thank you, you're a darling."

The message on its own didn't matter, only a few of the words did. Three white meant they were all three alive and unharmed, French referred to the safe house she had picked, and four red referred to the bodies she had left behind. Four of them, none that had escaped to her knowledge. It was simple and not particularly secure but served its purpose.

The call to John was almost identical. She started it with 'I told James to pick up some of your favourite white wine' but the words were much the same.

She didn't know when they would check their messages. She didn't know how long it would take them to return. Maybe a day for Yassen. Maybe a week or more for John. Whatever it was, she was on her own with Alex and Matilda for the immediate future.

The back seat had fallen silent. Matilda was asleep under her blanket, Alex against the window and wrapped in his jacket. Helen felt her heart twist but forced herself to ignore it and focus on simply surviving for now.

They crossed the border to France shortly before midnight. The children didn't even stir. Helen had a story ready about a sick relative but no one asked. Simply checked their passports and waved them through. She was a mother with two children. About as harmless as anyone could look.

They continued into France for another half an hour. Then, with a fake and decently obvious trail left behind for anyone not John or Yassen, Helen turned north and continued into the night towards Germany.

* * *

The Morrison family vanished without a trace late one Friday in mid-September of ninety-four.

They would not be seen again.


	6. Part VI: Bonn (I)

The safe-house was a decently secluded, old-fashioned house – cabin, almost – not too far outside of Bonn. They arrived well into the morning. Matilda had slept most of the way but was now awake. Alex had woken up in the early morning and slipped into the front passenger seat when they stopped briefly to stretch their legs.

Helen's exhaustion was almost a living thing; so deep she could feel it in her bones and with the weight of a long, tense, sleepless night.

The adrenaline was still there, as helpful at keeping her alert as it was useless in its jittery restlessness, and all she wanted to do was sleep. For days if she could, though she knew the best she could hope for right now was a brief nap.

The worry was there; for John and Yassen and her babies and herself, the fear that someone might track them down, but she knew that the risk of that was at least very small. Their house in Geneva had been wonderful. Perfect. She had loved it and – maybe they had stayed for too long. Grown too comfortable. Too complacent. Not enough to slack on security but maybe they should have moved again before Matilda was even born.

This place was much smaller but it was anonymous and safe and that was what they needed now.

At least groceries could wait. They had toured their safe-houses just a few months ago; Helen knew the pantry was stocked. Shelf stable food, sure, cans and jars and bags and boxes, but good enough. She could easily feed a family for a month on those supplies; they would be fine for now.

Helen opened the front door. Herded Alex and Matilda inside. There was a postcard pinned to the cork board in the hallway. It had a Claude Monet painting on it and it was the only thing that marked the place as the 'French' safe-house.

"Mama?" Matilda gripped her hand. Helen reached down automatically to pick her up and felt her relax in her arms.

It was an unfamiliar place but Matilda was young enough that she didn't really care so long as her mother was there. Alex …

Helen glanced down. Alex met her eyes, at once young and frightened and too old for his age and so determined to be strong for her and Matilda, to be the mature older brother and not be scared, and her heart hurt.

She reached out. Felt Alex's hand sneak into hers and grip it tightly, a brief moment of vulnerability in a situation that no child should ever have had to go through.

There were things to be done, Helen knew. The house was kept ready but it was only a temporary solution. They would need fresh food and clothes. And, less urgent but no less important, the little things to make the place feel like home of sorts and not merely a place to hide. Toys. School books for Alex. Games. Familiar little things that would make a world of difference once the reality of it all set in.

The air in the living room smelled stale, the remnants of sunlit dust and summer warmth and the first chill of autumn nights. Most of the master bedroom was taken up by an immense wooden closet and a massive bed, the largest size they had been able to find mattresses for. There were two smaller bedrooms for Alex and Matilda but it had always been an unspoken acknowledgement that if they needed one of the safe-houses, something had gone wrong. Odds were that at least Matilda would want to sleep in their bed and have the reassurance of her parents close by.

Even though Alex was seven and had never really slept in their bed, Helen would not rule it out with him, either. A quiet, unfamiliar bedroom at night when they had just been attacked in his childhood home and had to escape with no warning … Helen would be surprised if Alex didn't want that reassurance, too. The ability to check that she was still there and not gone when the night was dark and lonely and overwhelming.

Living room. Bedrooms. Bathroom. Kitchen. The house was small but it was everything they needed for now. It was the first time Alex had seen the place. Matilda had been there that very summer but Helen doubted she remembered it.

And, she understood a second later, Matilda would most likely never remember their house in Geneva, either. It would fade with the rest of her earliest childhood memories, a whisper of dew gone in the morning light. Alex was old enough to understand what they had left behind – or would, at least, when the reality of it started to sink in. In a few years, Matilda's earliest memories would most likely be whatever home and identity they settled into after this.

It should not have surprised Helen. It still hurt in a way she hadn't expected. The loss of all the memories that would never be, the garden that Matilda would never remember and the school and playmates Alex would never see again.

Because of SCORPIA. Because of Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones and MI6. Because of whoever had finally tracked them down. Because of a hundred honeyed reassurances about  _safety_  and  _new identities_  and  _whatever it takes_ , and they had been fools to believe for even a  _second_  that MI6 could live up to those promises.

Alex didn't speak during the brief tour. He hadn't talked much in the car, either. Mostly he had slept or stared out the window.

They ended up in the kitchen. Helen unwrapped a granola bar for Matilda and let the water run for a while before she filled a glass. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest of breakfasts but it would do for now.

Finally Alex broke the silence.

"Are dad and James okay?"

The first words Alex had spoken in hours and it was worry for his family. The guilt was a heavy knot in her chest, bleak and dark and toxic, and she closed her eyes for a second.

He shouldn't have had to worry. He was seven years old. His biggest concern should be school and friends and whatever new toy he wanted. He should have grown up in London, or France, and never have known anything but love and the freedom to be a normal child.

"Yes," Helen said, a small lie that she desperately hoped was true. She didn't know, had no way to know until John and Yassen reappeared, but that wasn't what Alex needed to hear. He was seven years old. That burden was hers.

Alex still looked doubtful but didn't ask again. Instead he unwrapped a granola bar as well, though he didn't make any move to actually eat it.

"Who were they?"

A glance at Matilda revealed she was busy with her improvised breakfast. Helen took a slow breath.

"I don't know but I think they were looking for your dad or James. They both have enemies. We'll find out and make sure it doesn't happen again."

Silence. It was a more adult explanation than Helen maybe should have used but Alex deserved as much of the truth as she could give. They had kept him as sheltered as possible, him and Matilda both, but that was about to come to an end.

Alex glanced over. "Why?"

And wasn't that the question? There was so much to cover in that one word, so much no child should have to deal with, so much they would need to explain and explain soon, and Helen took a few seconds to consider her answer.

"Your father was a soldier when I met him," she finally said. "His last job before you were born was to go undercover in a large group of criminals and find out how to stop them. They found out and wanted revenge. They've never stopped looking for him."

_For him. For us._

It was a very simplified explanation of a very complicated situation but the best she could do for now. It wasn't a lie, at least. Just – something that left out a lot of details that she would prefer Alex was much older before he found out about.

She had left out Yassen's part. Based on Alex's expression, he had realised that, too.

He didn't ask, though. Just reached over and hugged her tightly and fiercely, with everything that he didn't want to say out loud, and then returned to picking at his crumbling granola bar.

It should have made her feel better. The hug and explanation, however simple, seemed to have helped Alex a little, at least.

Helen's guilt remained where it was. Bleak. Dark. Toxic.

Somewhere, half a world away, John was – somewhere. Maybe he had heard the message. Maybe he hadn't. She had no way to know. No way to be sure he was safe. That he was even still alive. Him, or Yassen.

Helen unwrapped a granola bar. Forced herself to take a bite. It tasted like ash.

* * *

They slept in the immense bed, all three of them. Alex and Matilda against the wall and Helen on the other side, between them and the door.

The safe-house was perfectly anonymous. There was nothing to connect it with the Morrison family, or the Riders, or even Yassen. She had checked security. She had double and triple checked as well. She still slept only the lightest of sleep and woke with every whisper of sound.

There were four dead bodies outside of their home in Gena. Four people who had been minutes from getting inside. Four people who had wanted them kidnapped or killed or worse. Helen did not for a second regret that she had killed them but she still saw the way they had crumbled and the stains on the terrace when she closed her eyes.

Someone had decided to target them. Someone had found out their identities. Someone would have found out John and Yassen's identities, too. Helen could only hope that their attackers had targeted her and the children because John and Yassen couldn't be found.

It could be days before she heard anything. Possibly even weeks.

It was a long night.

* * *

Yassen got the message first, in the very early hours of Saturday morning some five hours after Helen had left it. It was not a welcome message but one they had expected sooner or later. They'd had seven years undisturbed; sooner or later, someone would have found them. Hunter had enemies. Enemies that liked and respected him to a surprisingly large degree but enemies nonetheless. The prize on his head spoke volumes about that.

Helen had sounded perfect calm. Perfectly casual. It was impossible to predict how someone would respond to a situation like that but Yassen had expected nothing else from Hunter's wife.

They had contingency plans. They had always been ready to leave at a moment's notice. If things had gone according to those plans, Helen and the children would be en route to Bonn and, for now, Yassen had no reason to believe otherwise.

There were a few loose ends to tie up with his own job but nothing he had not already planned to handle that day. He merely worked a little faster and arrived at the Morrison home late Saturday afternoon.

It was a risk. There was nothing worth his life. Still, with precautions … it was a risk Yassen was willing to take. Someone had targeted Hunter's family. If there was any way to identify the attackers, Yassen knew Hunter would want them to pay. To do that, they needed information.

Any evidence might already be gone. The house could have been destroyed. There would have been plenty of time to set a trap. Yassen still went.

It was a risk but worth it if it could lead to the sort of information that would ensure such an attack would not happen again.

Yassen was familiar with the neighbourhood. It had been years since he had last lived there but he had still visited often enough and that gave him an advantage now.

A careful drive around the area found nothing out of place, only the reasonably quiet Saturday evening of a place with mostly families. The occasional house with guests, cars outside and the buildings brightly lit; a couple of young teenagers outside and away from watchful eyes; a car or two as people went about their business. Nothing to immediately trigger Yassen's instincts. Nothing that looked suspicious.

Only after a thorough check did he park on a different road, the one that bordered the dense bit of forest behind Hunter's home and where he knew the terrain well enough to take a more unexpected approach in case the place was under surveillance.

It would have been too suspicious with heavy security around the property, of course, but that had not stopped Hunter from having a stone wall built in place of the original wooden fence that marked the border between the forest and the Morrison home. Rustic-looking and aesthetically pleasing enough to be written off as a decorative choice, but intimidating enough not to invite random visitors. It barely slowed Yassen down.

The place was silent. There were four unmoving figures on the terrace that overlooked the gardens, the right shape and size for adult human males. The  _f_ _our red_ from Helen's message _._  Based on the positions and the stains on the terrace, they had been shot from a position above them. The roof, then, probably using a gable as shelter and support, and fast enough that none of them had been given time to respond.

It would be risky to approach the house, even riskier to step inside, but based on what Yassen had seen, the operation – if it could even be called that – had clearly been abandoned. Those four might have been professionals but the whole thing gave off the impression of something rash and impulsive and not the sharp, efficient style he would have expected from one of Hunter's enemies.

A closer look confirmed Yassen's suspicions about the angle of the shots. He didn't recognise any of the four – and hadn't really expected to, either – and their clothes and equipment was all perfectly anonymous. That, too, was mostly expected as well. He still brought out a camera and documented everything.

The four had obviously targeted the large windows by the kitchens. The tools were familiar and the damage to the window was precise and significant. Another few minutes and they would have made their way through.

A closer look revealed that the primary security cameras nearby had been looped, and a cursory check revealed the same for the rest in the immediate area. They had clearly believed it would be enough to remain undetected for the time needed to get inside.

Yassen entered the security code. The safe thing would be to turn around and leave. Yassen trusted his instincts enough to run the risk.

The house itself was silent. Unnervingly, unnaturally so. Yassen could not recall the last time the house had been that empty, as if the place itself knew that its owners had left and would not be back again.

It was no matter.

Yassen moved swiftly and soundlessly. A check of the interior revealed nothing but a home that had been abandoned in a hurry, the children's beds unmade and Helen's half-full mug still left on one table.

His next stop was the safe room and the surveillance tapes kept there. A few minutes later, he had whatever evidence the cameras had managed to catch. The tapes vanished into a duffel bag from the closet. Those tapes and Yassen's photos would be their best chance to identify those responsible.

Evidence secured, the sensible thing would have been to finish the job and leave. Yassen still hesitated, then continued upstairs. It took little time to pack a few changes of clothes and the toys Yassen knew Hunter's children were most attached to; priceless objects to a child and all the more so now that they had abruptly been removed from everything they were used to. Their entire lives had been uprooted and they would need to become someone new as well. If this made the process easier, it was worth the small risk. He could always check for unwanted surprises well away from the house.

Downstairs again, Yassen added two of the albums to the duffel bag as well. There was nothing in the house they could not afford to lose, nothing in those albums that was not a copy of an original that was safely locked away, but he knew Helen would still appreciate it. Those were the albums with the baby photos; the ones she had looked through the most over the years and the ones with the most marks and creases from inquisitive children's hands.

Evidence, surveillance, a few sentimental things. There was only one thing left to do, then. The house was an expensive investment to leave behind but Hunter had known that before the papers had ever been signed. It was expensive but it wasn't worth their lives.

There were three jerrycans of fuel in the garage along with a case of incendiary devices, carefully hidden well away from curious eyes. It was mildly unsettling to Yassen to realise just how little time it took to finish the job. He had done it before often enough to erase any evidence. This was – different. A place that had, for a little while, been the closest thing he'd had to a home since -

\- Estrov.

When he was done, the house reeked of fuel. The safe room. The basement. The ground floor. The first floor. Even the bodies outside for good measure. The incendiary devices had been placed strategically inside where the flames would have the most to feed on.

With the timers set, all that was left to do was leave.

When the first device went off ten minutes later, Yassen was safely out of the neighbourhood and on his way to the French border. By the time the first fire engine arrived, it would already be too late. Yassen had done a thorough job. There would be little left but stone and ashes when the fire had run its course.

All that was left of their lives in Geneva was Yassen's duffel bag and whatever Helen and the children had brought with them.

Yassen did not look back.

* * *

" _Séamus, love, it's Caroline. I told James to pick up some of your favourite white wine. Three bottles of that French one. The store here stopped carrying it and all we have left at home are four bottles of red. I'll see you soon. Love you."_

John Rider got the message on Saturday afternoon in an apartment in São Paulo.

For a second, the world stopped. Started again in a lurch and left John half a heartbeat behind and struggling to catch up.

The message was almost twenty-four hours old. If everything had gone according to plan, Helen and the kids would be in Germany by now. If not -

\- If not, John could do nothing. Not now, not half a world away, not without intel. Was Yassen there? He didn't know. He hadn't been there when Helen had called, the message said as much, but Yassen was in Europe and about to finish up a job of his own. He could have arrived already. Even if he hadn't, he would still be there days before John could. And even that was pushing it. John had a lot of loose ends to tie up.

In the end, he could do nothing. He had to trust their contingency plans were enough. He had to trust Helen could handle herself and keep Alex and Matilda safe. Had to trust that even if Yassen wasn't there, the safe-house would be enough until John could get back.

They had trained for it. They were all three unharmed. Helen had sounded perfectly calm. Perfectly at ease. There had been four hostiles but she had handled that, too. They would be safe, John would get back home, they would find out who had done it, and then they would fix the problem permanently. Between him and Yassen, they would find a way.

Helen was safe. The kids were safe. He had to trust they had planned and practised enough.

Half a world away, that was all John Rider could do.

* * *

Yassen arrived at the safe-house Sunday morning. He had stopped to sleep along the way. There was little point in showing up in the middle of the night and they all needed at least a chance for some undisturbed rest.

Yassen rang the doorbell. Followed up with three sharp knocks. Waited.

He could get inside if he wanted. He knew the security system and where the spare key was. That wasn't the point. This was the polite thing to do and, even more important, it was the safe approach as well.

Helen Rider had been attacked in Geneva, alone with two young children; had killed four people and fled across two borders in the dead of the night to reach a safe-house, and Yassen was not about to test the ruthless, protective instincts that had seen them escape their attackers. Yassen didn't want to traumatise the Rider children further, and he certainly did not want to test how literal Hunter's wife took 'shoot first and ask questions later'.

The door opened. Yassen's first glimpse of Helen Rider was blonde hair and hard eyes and the pale edge of exhaustion. Then something seemed to ease, the relief that she was no longer alone, no longer the only thing between her children and their enemies, and she stepped aside to let Yassen in.

He did not even get the chance to put down the duffel bag before a small, blond tornado slammed into him.  _"Jamie!"_

Yassen picked Alex up without second thought and the boy clung to him not with of the enthusiasm of having his brother back but with the edge of desperation that followed a glimpse of normality in a life that had been brutally uprooted. Alex's grip was a little too tight, his voice a little too frantic, but Yassen merely held him as Helen closed the door.

Matilda appeared a moment later, a stuffed bunny in her arms. Helen picked her up as she reached them and Yassen ended up in an awkward sort of hug-and-a-half, with Alex attached to him like a limpet and Matilda in her mother's arms but with one hand tightly gripping Yassen's t-shirt.

Yassen did not object. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had that kind of reassurance – the last time he had been allowed it – but it had been … a long time. Before everything. Before the anthrax. Before Estrov. Alex and Matilda had their mother but they'd had no idea about their father or older brother, and Yassen's reappearance was the first step towards … something more than their sudden, brutal escape. If this was the reassurance they needed, Yassen would give it.

Eventually Alex let go and Yassen put him back down, only a little relieved. He had worked with weaponry heavier than Alex – not much, but some – but it was still quite a bit of weight to have resting in his arms, especially with the duffel bag still slung over one shoulder.

Matilda had grown distracted, too, and Helen put her back down as well, though the girl still kept a tight grip on her mother's hand.

Alex wandered over to the couch where Yassen spotted a half-eaten plate of breakfast. The TV was on as well, unfamiliar cartoon figures going about their business on low volume. Alex returned to his food. At least he still had an appetite.

Only then, with Alex distracted and Matilda still a little too young to understand, did Yassen speak.

"You are well?" he asked quietly.

"Alive. Unharmed. I didn't sleep much," Helen admitted, as quiet as Yassen had been.

Nothing Yassen had not expected. She had shot their attackers in self-defence but it was still the first time she had taken a life. Four, in this case. He would be surprised if she didn't have a reaction eventually when things calmed down again.

He didn't ask if she had heard from Hunter. Part of the security measures around their safe-house was no communication. Her mobile phone would have been discarded on the way, and she would not have risked any kind of contact with him or Hunter. Not even a brief message that they were safe. Nothing anyone would be able to track in any way.

"The house?" Helen asked.

"I ensured there was no evidence."

She understood the meaning. There was a flicker of pain in her eyes, the loss of  _home,_ of stability and everything that had come with it. Then it was gone and Yassen continued after a glance revealed Alex still enthralled by the TV. "I retrieved the surveillance tapes and made a record of any useful evidence there. They were decently trained but the operation lacked the professionalism I would have expected. The bodies remained. I had expected them to have been retrieved."

"There were only four of them. I – expected more than that," Helen said. "There was a van at the end of our driveway, too. Large, dark, supposedly from a carpentry company."

It sounded suspicious to Yassen's ears based on the description alone, and Hunter's wife had good instincts. "It was gone when I arrived."

The driveway had been deserted. Yassen expected that van had been their means of transportation. Someone had been alive to remove it, then, or known it was there, but had not made the effort to do anything about the bodies or any evidence they might provide. It smelled increasingly like an unsanctioned operation. A sudden opportunity rather than a properly planned attack.

Helen nodded. Filed that information away somewhere. "We need to get out tomorrow. I need clothes for Alex and Matilda. Toys. Fresh food, too."

"I brought a few things from the house. Clothes. Toys. A few of the albums."

He slipped off the duffel bag. Handed it to Helen. There was no tremor in her hand when she accepted it, no hesitation, but he could see the gratitude in her eyes. It was nothing, one bag out of an entire house, but it was also memories and the thought that Yassen had cared enough to take the time to do it, to run the risk for purely sentimental things, and her grip on the bag was tight enough to turn her fingers white.

" _Thank you,_ " she whispered.

Tiny things but enough to make a world of difference to Alex and Matilda. Yassen himself had been left with nothing. If he could do this much for Hunter's wife and children, it was worth it.

Neither spoke of the future. They both knew the plan. Stay. Wait until the last member of their small family either contacted them or four weeks had passed without word. Then settle on a course of action, with Hunter or without him. He was in South America somewhere; that was all that Yassen knew. He himself had not been a target. Had Hunter? Most likely not but they would have no way to tell. Not until they heard news or the lack of same.

Time to focus on the immediate future, then. Supplies. Security. And, once Alex and Matilda were in bed, Yassen and Helen would start to piece together the puzzle that was the attack.

By the time Hunter returned, Yassen planned to have a name. A name, a motive, a plan for revenge.

And then they would make sure such a mistake would not happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl,dr: chapter was late because daycare plague is the gift that keeps on giving :p


	7. Part VII: Bonn (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is mostly talk. I blame Hunter. He doesn't shut up.

MI6 had the information by Wednesday. It was both painfully slow as any trail or evidence would long since be gone but also remarkably fast, Tulip would acknowledge as much. It had been pure luck. An upper-class home reduced to stone and ashes, with four dead bodies in the backyard burned to a point where only DNA or dental records would offer any chance of identification … it had gathered quite a lot of interest but no one had much to go on. The Morrison family was mostly average by the standards of their social circle. A stay-at-home mother, a successful father working with investments, two young children and the grown son from the father's first marriage. No trace of anything criminal in their past, nothing worth a second look … but there were still four dead bodies in their garden and no trace of the family. The last time any of them had been spotted was Caroline Morrison's car crossing the French border, presumably with both her children, though the quality of the surveillance tapes made it impossible to tell for sure.

It could have taken months to figure out what had happened. As it was, MI6's agent stationed in Switzerland had looked through the files out of obligation and vague interest and had recognised not Séamus Morrison but the nurse who had watched over him for six weeks in a private hospital in London after a mission gone catastrophically wrong. A little older, with a different haircut and style of clothes, but Caroline Morrison was very clearly Helen Beckett.

He forwarded the information along with everything else the local authorities knew. The desk officer in London took a look at it – a British national under a potentially false identity, involved in an incident in Switzerland – and dutifully set about writing a memo.

One check of Helen Beckett's suspiciously thin file -

_\- RIDER, HELEN; née BECKETT_

_INTERPOL YELLOW NOTICE_

_Security clearance: SC (09-01-1983), withdrawn (21-04-1987)_

_See: OPERATION: ORCUS_

_See: RIDER, JOHN_

_See: SCORPIA -_

\- And he did the sensible thing and forwarded the whole damn mess to his boss, who was paid to deal with that kind of headache. His boss took one look at the word  _SCORPIA_  and kicked the mess upstairs.

The file was on Tulip Jones' desk within two hours of the message from Zurich.

With Helen Rider's identity established, it didn't take long to identify the rest of the people behind the Morrison cover. John Rider had clearly had a touch of plastic surgery and his body language was leagues from the agent that MI6 and SCORPIA had prized so much, but that was not enough to hide his identity when someone knew just who they were looking at. Of the three Morrison children, MI6 had a file on Alexander John Rider and while he had been no more than two months old in the most recent photo, the details all matched. Matilda Morrison was only two, and James Morrison …

…  _James Morrison_. Tulip had almost laughed at that from sheer disbelief. Who but John Rider would have the sheer audacity to steal away one of SCORPIA's most promising students and give the boy a new identity as his barely-legitimate son?

MI6's most recent photo of Yassen Gregorovich was several years old and showed the man in disguise, but the photos of James Morrison left little doubt they were one and the same man.

John Rider had been hunted by everyone from SCORPIA to MI6 for seven years, had become one of the best assassins in the world and trained the man who would very likely take over that position one day … and all the while played house with his wife and children and  _Yassen Gregorovich_ in Geneva. Less than four hundred miles from Venice and Malagosto and Julia Rothman _._

It was so outrageously  _John_  that Tulip's heart hurt for a moment.

For a moment. Her finger brushed the photos briefly – Alex, who looked so much like his father that it hurt; Matilda, who took more from Helen but the eyes were all John – and then she packed the file back up along with that lingering regret. However much she liked John, however much they owed him, he was still Hunter. Still one of the best contract killers in the world.

A quick call to Alan's secretary confirmed the man was in his office. A few minutes and one floor later, Tulip placed the file on his desk.

"John was in Geneva."

Alan paused. Opened the file. The office was silent but for the sound of shifting papers as he read through the report. Unlike Tulip, he did not linger on the photos, though she hadn't expected him to, either.

The file completed, he returned to the summary in front.

"Seven years," he said, and there was a touch of – something in his voice. The ghost of approval. John had been everything MI6 had wanted, everything SCORPIA had wanted, too, and he'd had a remarkable ability to somehow get on decently friendly terms with just about everyone. Maybe MI6 had failed him in the end, maybe John was an internationally wanted assassin now, but Alan had still been genuinely fond of him … in his own Alan sort of way. And what John had managed with no resources but his own wit, money, and connections was impressive.

Then the flicker of approval was gone and things were back to business again. "Conclusions?"

Because Tulip had been John's handler, the one who had recruited him in the first place, and probably the one person in MI6 who knew him best … for a given definition of that term. John Rider had been social and a master at small-talk – and, in the end, even more of a master at saying nothing whatsoever that could actually be used against him.

"They had obviously planned for this sort of situation. They had seven years of anonymity but never let down their guard. John trained Helen," Tulip said clinically. It had been a mad thought, Helen Rider taught by the man who had been one of SCORPIA's best assassins and instructors, but the evidence was substantial. "He would want his family as protected as possibly. A safe room in the basement, extensive surveillance, the best defences money could buy that would still be able to blend in – the house was better protected than some of our safe-houses. And the attack itself: Four people, all shot in the head from somewhere on the roof – John trained her. To protect her and their children, certainly, but the same training he himself received. If he hasn't started to train Alex in some sort of self-defence, he will do so now. Presumably Matilda will learn as soon as she is old enough as well."

_Whatever it took._  That had always been John's approach. Once, it had seen him rise in the ranks within SCORPIA with unparalleled ambition. These days, that approach would be aimed towards keeping his family safe.

John Rider had never suffered from the same male chauvinism that Tulip had faced in her early years with MI6, that condescending attitude she still saw in some of their agents, and Helen Beckett had been a ruthlessly pragmatic woman. John would want her to have every advantage he could give her.

SCORPIA, Tulip remembered, sudden and unbidden, had some exceptionally successful female operatives.

"Gregorovich?" Alan asked. "Rider himself?"

"Unknown," Tulip reported. "Phone records show that Helen made two short calls on the way to France; the phone has not been used since and was likely discarded afterwards. The local authorities have tracked the numbers but it was a dead end. All evidence indicate that they were not at home, though. Presumably the calls were to let them know what had happened and where Helen and the children planned to go to ground."

The phone numbers would already be abandoned as well, Tulip didn't bother to point that out. It was common sense. The Riders had obviously planned for such an emergency. Tulip doubted there had been anything left to connect the family with the Morrison identity by the time the house was destroyed. The fire would have removed any remaining evidence.

Alan was silent. Tulip wondered what went on in his mind. Alan Blunt and Helen Rider had never seen eye to eye. She had been a particularly persistent annoyance to Alan when she should have been satisfied with  _classified_ and endless months of silence, and he had in turn been one of the few people Helen had actively loathed by the end of John's SCORPIA assignment.

"Your assessment?"

Tulip paused for a moment. Glanced at the file. Whatever else John Rider might be, he was also Hunter, and Hunter had learned the lethal politics of international crime from SCORPIA.

"He can't – won't – allow to let the attack go unanswered. This was a direct attack on his family; a lack of response will imply a weakness he can't afford." She paused. "He is also John Rider. We didn't pick him for Operation Orcus because he was a paragon of virtue. Someone targeted his family. He'll want revenge."

A slight nod. Agreement with the assessment or approval of John's likely course of action. Maybe both.

They didn't have much to go on and Tulip knew it. They had what the local authorities had uncovered so far, along with the benefit of their own records on John and his family but … it wasn't much. How had the attack taken place? No one knew, just how the four attackers had died. Had there been more? Another unknown. The fire had claimed anything useful, and what was left was guesswork.

'Guesswork', Tulip supposed, was a decent description of intelligence work some days and in this case it wasn't even a surprise.

If it hadn't been for their asset in Switzerland, they might never have known John had been in Geneva. This had been between Hunter and whoever had been behind that attack. MI6 were the intruders, trying to piece together the truth based on nothing more than shadows on a wall.

"SCORPIA would be the first suspect," Alan said, "but this lacks their efficiency. Someone would have died for a failure of this magnitude."

And it wasn't like John was short on enemies. Tulip had seen just how much her former colleague was worth. More than enough to tempt even the most sensible people into taking that risk if the opportunity presented itself.

The silence stretched on. Finally Alan spoke again.

"Put out a general alert for any usual incidents. When he retaliates, I want to know."

As expected. Tulip nodded, left to handle the report and practical parts of the order, and pushed aside the part of her that remembered a charming smile and a young nurse and a time when John Rider had been just another agent.

* * *

John Rider arrived at the safe-house on Friday afternoon, a week after the attack.

Helen's early dinner preparations were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, then three sharp knocks. The first sound made her freeze. The second, the pre-arranged signal, sent her heart racing as hours and days – a  _week_  – of worry bore down on her, and she moved, salad forgotten on the kitchen counter.

Yassen reached the door before she did. An achingly familiar voice, a flash of brown hair and clasped hands, and then he was  _there,_ alive and well and  _home._

The next few minutes were a blur to Helen. John's embrace, strong and warm and familiar. Calloused hands and the lingering scent of his aftershave and then Alex and Matilda were there, twin hurricanes of blonde hair, and Helen buried her hands in his jacket as the full weight of everything hit her.

For a week, she had known nothing. Yassen had been there, but John had been half a world away and Helen had had no way to know if he was even still alive. She had been strong for Alex and Matilda, had split the nights with Yassen so one of them was always,  _always_  awake, and she had dragged herself up every morning, pushed it all aside, and gone about her day because her children needed their mother. Needed that bit of normality in a world that had just disintegrated around them.

Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day.

And now he was home.

" _I love you,_ " John murmured, low and fierce and as desperate as Helen felt,  _"I love you, you're incredible, my god -"_

\- And Helen hugged him tighter, one hand still in his jacket, the other wrapped around Alex while Matilda rested in her father's arms.

Helen wiped her eyes; the tears she had not allowed to fall since Geneva.  _Missed you,_  she didn't say but knew he understood and John's eyes were suspiciously red as well. Then Alex wanted his attention again, and Matilda hugged him tighter, and Helen felt something in her chest slowly ease as she watched her family, finally complete again.

She glanced over and met Yassen's eyes. He was still Yassen, still half a step separated from the family – by choice or trauma, and Helen had learned to respect that – but there was relief in him, too, the whisper of slowly easing tension as well as the last bit of their small puzzle fell into place again. There was still a whole new life to figure out, a new home and new identities and how to explain it all to Alex, but for now -

\- For now, John was  _home._

* * *

It was well into the evening before things calmed down enough that Hunter had the opportunity to look through the file Yassen had put together. Helen had gone to bed early as a full week of exhaustion had finally caught up with her, but Yassen needed little sleep these days and Hunter – Hunter wanted answers.

Yassen's file on the attack was factual, to-the-point, and every bit as detailed as anything short of a crime scene technician with a fully equipped lab could manage. Malagosto had focused on the practical necessity of not leaving evidence. Hunter, without the backing of a terrorist organisation, had turned it into an art. Malagosto's lessons had been perfectly fine for a comfortably employed assassin with a network to do the hard work. Hunter had taught him the whys and the hows and the technology; the theories behind and the art of intelligence work and anything else that might help Yassen stay alive and undetected later, and that investment was returned in full now.

Hunter watched the surveillance records twice. Opened the folder and read through the file in silence. Once, then once more with the photos on the side and scribbled notes to himself. Only then did he put the papers down and focus on Yassen.

"This is exceptional work," he said and kept his voice low in the silence of the living room. "You spent … what? Thirty minutes there?"

A curl of warmth in Yassen's chest at the honest praise, a response he had never quite managed to crush and had mostly just learned to accept. Their history was complicated but – the admiration had never quite faded. Hunter was a virtuoso. His praise mattered.

"Twenty-five," Yassen said. It was all he had dared risk. "Helen's observations account for most of the details about the attack itself. She is … meticulous."

Yassen wouldn't call her cold-blooded but it took strong nerves to manage the detailed observations she had in the middle of an attack on their home. Calm under pressure, with a sharp mind, and merciless when required. She still reminded him of Dr Three at times like these.

"She's a nurse," John murmured. He was focused on the file again but there was warm admiration in his voice. "She's more observant than some agents I knew. And she worked in the classified ward. Half the time, they only got what MI6 deemed the relevant parts of the story and had to piece it together themselves. God forbid they admitted to something unsavoury."

He focused on Yassen again. "Tell me your conclusion."

Yassen didn't quite hesitate. More … wanted to find the right words. He had considered the case for the past six days and was no closer to a firm conclusion. "I want to say SCORPIA but this is – rushed. Impulsive and ill thought-out. It lacks the planning and the care."

John made a low hum of agreement. "They'll go through a lot of effort to keep up that image of infallibility," he said. "But that's all. An image. A very valuable one, but mistakes happen. You're right, this doesn't quite have the feel of it, but I still think this was carried out using SCORPIA resources."

_Carried out using SCORPIA resources._  Those were his exact words. Not  _was carried out by SCORPIA,_ and there was a difference. Hunter was careful about his words.

"The strategy and approach were familiar," Yassen agreed. Hunter didn't speak and Yassen hadn't expected him to. It had been a while but he remembered Hunter's way of turning things into a lesson for Yassen to work out himself. "It is a contradiction, though. The attackers had SCORPIA training but there were fewer people than I would expect, the expected clean-up did not happen, and there was an unforgivable amount of evidence left behind."

Well, there had been, anyway. The fire had handled that. The only useful evidence left was the file in Hunter's hands. The remnants of the house and bodies there would yield little of use.

"It looked – unauthorised," Yassen finally said. "It looked like an attack planned by someone without the practical experience."

Hunter nodded.

"I think," he said, "that SCORPIA shot themselves in the foot with my bounty. That was a team of grunts. Trained grunts, sure, but nowhere near the sort of skills expected of an operative. Soldiers, not trained killers. Not too many people have the authority to order around operatives, but grunts like that are a little more available. I think someone took a risk and overstepped their authority. Probably the assistant or right hand to a station chief. Someone who's got the authority to handle smaller issues in his boss' name but not enough for a larger operation."

Yassen paused. Considered the words. It seemed reasonable. It made several of the pieces fit where they hadn't before as well. And Hunter's bounty was – significant.

"Greed, then."

"Greed," Hunter agreed. "My guess? Someone made the connection between the Morrison identity and us. How, I don't know and maybe we never will. Probably pure dumb luck, we were pretty careful, but that's how it goes. Probably some low-level grunt somewhere got lucky. So grunt does the sensible thing and goes to his boss with the intel. Maybe he knows about the bounty, maybe he doesn't, it doesn't matter. Maybe his boss has a decent rank, maybe it has to go a few more levels up, but the point is that sooner or later it gets to the desk of someone who can actually make a decision. Possibly a high-ranking operative but more likely a station chief somewhere. Now, someone like that is a busy person so they've got assistants to pick up the phone and sort through their mail. Assistant answers the phone, gets the intel, looks up the name, and sees two-and-half million dollars staring back. And he's not going to get a cent of that. His boss will handle the retrieval and get the bounty, the grunt will probably get five or ten percent for the intel, but all assistant there did was pick up the phone. And two-and-a-half million dollar is a lot of money."

Even for them, and never mind one low-ranking criminal of middling ability. Yassen didn't speak. He did not have Hunter's experience with the inner workings of SCORPIA but it sounded disconcertingly likely. It made a lot of things fall into place.

"Now," John continued, "the lowly assistant to a station chief can't arrange a full-out attack without his boss' permission, but he's got some leeway with smaller stuff. They have to be able to handle the things that are too insignificant for the higher-ups to bother with. So assistant takes a look at things and realises that we're both elsewhere and all he has to deal with is a housewife with two children. Easy targets for a kidnapping. Hand Helen and the kids over to SCORPIA as bait for me, and he'd be rewarded. He can't call in an actual combat team or operatives for it, but he can use some of SCORPIA's local resources. So that's what he does. It's a risk if it goes wrong, people have been disposed of for less, but it's a lot of money and it looks like an easy job. Except Helen is not an easy target. She kills the team sent to handle it, assistant panics and flees, and nothing happens like it's supposed to. No clean-up, evidence still around, and the targets escape. Four of SCORPIA's people dead, a valuable target spooked, and he's going to have to explain it."

_Explain it._  It was no wonder if the assistant had fled. A mistake of that magnitude was a death sentence.

… If that was what had happened, at least, and Yassen had no reason to believe otherwise. Hunter's reasoning was sound. MI6 had not sent him undercover to be an assassin. They had sent him to destroy SCORPIA and to do that, he would have needed to know everything about the organisation. To survive and to do his job. Both of his jobs.

If this was Hunter's conclusion, Yassen did not doubt it.

"… How do we respond?" he asked instead. Hunter would want revenge, Yassen didn't doubt that, either, and he agreed with that approach. It was a direct attack. If they did nothing, it would happen again.

Hunter took a slow breath. Turned his attention back to the file and slowly flipped through the photos again. "That's the question, isn't it?"

There was a seriousness to his words that echoed past lessons, the unspoken awareness that this was higher stakes than usual, and Yassen simply waited.

"It's a balancing act," Hunter continued. "If we don't respond, it'll weaken our reputation and invite additional attempts. Go too far, and SCORPIA will respond in kind, and we'll be caught in a rapidly escalating war. If this was an unauthorised attack, they will look the other way when we retaliate … up to a certain point, anyway. Odds are they'll even wait for us to act. What we choose to do can say a lot about us to the executive board, and they can always step in afterwards and clean up the rest if we didn't go for the right people."

_Politics._ Was that was he would have had to deal with, had he remained with SCORPIA? They had been insistent about his potential. How much of Hunter's political experience was part of his very deliberate strategy to work his way to the top of the organisation and how much was the simple result of being their best assassin?

Yassen's silence was obviously longer than Hunter expected because the man looked back up.

"Whatever else SCORPIA might be these days, it was founded by intelligence agents," he said. "Cold War veterans, black ops, analysts, interrogation specialists, government sanctioned assassins – their backgrounds were all a little different but they were all, without exception, some of the best in their field. Maybe it sounds like politics or petty little games to outsiders, but the board enjoys those games and it helps them keep their skills as sharp and deadly as possible. You want to know why there have been so few successful undercover agents with SCORPIA? That's why. This isn't a drug cartel run by your average criminal. These are people trained by the best instructors money and influence can buy and tempered by years in the field in some of the most hostile places in the world. Any agent sent undercover will be a rookie in comparison and sooner or later, they will slip up. All it takes is a single mistake. Just the slightest suspicion and they're dead. It's not just politics, Yassen. It's survival. What we do in retaliation will give them a good idea of our resources, our priorities, and our current situation. Whatever we do, there'll be a thorough analysis of it ready within twenty-four hours and we have to be sure we won't give them any information we can't afford them to have."

_Politics,_ Yassen repeated to himself a little spitefully. Maybe it wasn't accurate but he could still blame it on that as the first whisper of a headache settled somewhere near his temples.

Hunter had thrived in that kind of environment. Yassen had little patience for it and he doubted it would have been any different if he had stayed with SCORPIA.

"A lot of effort to spend on one man," he said. A lot of effort the board could have spent on more profitable things.

"A lot of effort spent on someone considered one of the best assassins in the world along with his former apprentice who will most likely claim that position from him one day," John corrected. "All it takes is one lucky shot. One assassin skilled and lucky enough, and the board knows it. We're worth that effort."

Skilled and lucky, and Hunter was both. The luck of the devil. Yassen wondered if Alex and Matilda would inherit it, too.

Hunter shook his head. Packed the file together. "That's for tomorrow, though. Get some sleep. Clear your head. Then we'll look at it again and figure out a plan."

Part of Yassen wanted to argue. Another part, the one with the headache, knew that one more day wouldn't matter. This was about patience. About planning. They didn't even have the intel to know where to strike and even if they did, hasty retaliation would be suicide.

Instead he simply nodded.

Hunter probably knew his feelings on the matter because he gave him a smile, small and wry. "We'll figure it out. It'll take a while but it'll be safer that way. You did good. Now we'll make sure it won't happen again."

He made what would be a complex situation sound remarkably easy but it still eased something in Yassen. Hunter believed it could be done and that was all Yassen needed to know. For the first time in a week, they had an objective. Perhaps they would succeed, perhaps they would fail, but for the first time in an endless week, Yassen could actually do something.


	8. Part VIII: Bonn (III)

The sound of the church bells of Venice echoed through the Widow's Palace. Behind armoured windows and solid walls it was reduced to little more than a whisper in Julia Rothman's office but it was still a familiar refrain from years in the city.

Julia rather liked it. The sound had echoed through the grand home for centuries, marking hours and months and years, and would continue undisturbed for long after she was gone.

Some would consider it a bit of a morbid memento mori. Julia considered it a reminder to seize every opportunity she could. Life was transient. Luxury was transient. It was, however, the most delightful sort of transience around.

The last whisper of the bells was interrupted as the door opened and her second-in-command stepped soundlessly inside.

"Clean-up has been handled, ma'am."

Corvo was tall, muscular, and lethal – and also, Julia would readily admit, quite easy on the eyes. He was certainly one of the more competent seconds she had claimed. She still let him wait until he clearly wanted to fidget in the silence; small shifts in his posture that were only visible to those who knew what to look for.

"I expect you made it clear that another hiring mistake of that magnitude will see the full staff replaced."

Assuming, of course, their station chief in Zurich lived long enough to find a new assistant. Hunter would want revenge. With the people directly responsible for the attack dead, SCORPIA expected he would find other ways to express his annoyance.

"Yes, ma'am."

To his credit, he did not babble to fill the silence. He was skilled; top of his class at Malagosto and with an excellent track record … but he wasn't Hunter.

The muted flicker of annoyance that followed that thought was familiar and expected, and Julia  _despised_ it. Hunter had been an investment; the only operative she had found so far that would have been the perfect second-in-command, and that investment had  _failed._

With time and patience, he would have been everything she could reasonably demand. Lethal, skilled, intelligent, and absolutely loyal. It had been a simple enough plan. Build up a connection. Find his weaknesses. Wait for the inevitable divorce as he grew too distant from his wife and she grew tired of the loneliness and uncertainty. Be there in the aftermath. She had played that role before, patient and empathetic and so very understanding, and it would have been easy to turn that familiarity to – something more. Loyalty. Devotion. That edge of obsession. Impervious to bribes and threats and the lure of another woman.

Julia had made her fortune through a man like that. Her husband had been a ruthless businessman. Intelligent, brutal, and distrustful enough that he could have made an excellent career in the intelligence world if things had happened differently. He was the sort of man who knew better than to trust anyone, and certainly a beautiful woman far younger than himself. The sort of man who had every reason to be spiteful enough to put legal protections into place that would ensure Julia would have received nothing of his fortune in the event of his death.

Julia had still managed to twist things to her advantage. She had been a widow within a week of the wedding and had sold off his business empire at a sizeable profit within a year. Intelligent, brutal, and distrustful had mattered little in the end. All men had weaknesses. Julia had made a career of using those against them.

What Hunter had wanted would have mattered little in the end. Julia always got her way, and so much the better if he had believed it to be his own decision.

Instead Hunter had played house with his wife and two children and one of Malagosto's most promising students, and Julia wanted to  _crush_  something.

She did not appreciate having her careful investments ruined.

Helen Rider could be forgiven; Hunter was an excellent specimen and Julia hardly blamed her for reclaiming her property. Based on their intel from Geneva now that they had a name to go on, Hunter was by all accounts a devoted husband and attentive, loving father. Well worth, Julia supposed, the bother of going on the run with him. Hunter had certainly provided well for his family based on their house and the price he charged for his time and skills. Far better than a mere intelligence agent could ever have managed.

Julia had put up with a year and a half of her husband's bothersome attention before her investment had paid off. Helen Rider had been on the run for seven and a half years but Hunter was also far more charming company and significantly easier on the eyes than the dear, departed Mr Rothman had been, so Julia supposed it balanced out.

Corvo had remained where he was, a silent statue but for the slight, restless shift of muscles as he waited for either further instructions or a dismissal.

At least the obedience was there. Malagosto did not tolerate disrespect in her students. Three's lessons had worked wonders to ensure their graduates possessed a suitable level of politeness in all dealings with the Board.

Julia glanced at him. "If Hunter hasn't murdered the lot of them in two months, send internal affairs their way. I want a full audit. And arrange for a suitable funeral bouquet for Petrescu."

Corvo hesitated for no more than a second. "… Yes, ma'am. When is the funeral?"

Excellent question. And certainly given that there hadn't been even a whisper that one of the members of the Board had died, not even around someone as close to them as Corvo was.

"In about a week, I expect."

It was far simpler to arrange for such things when you knew the time of death in advance. Julia simply – helped things along. Radiation-induced cancer was a dreadful thing and the last thing SCORPIA wanted was a Board member babbling classified information in the middle of a drug-fuelled hallucination – or worse, felt the need for some bothersome deathbed confession.

This time there was no hesitation.

"Yes, ma'am."

Julia made a small wave. "Dismissed."

Corvo left without a sound.

Handsome. Skilled. Loyal. Lethal. He still wasn't Hunter.

* * *

Morning was … odd. John Rider had spent a week torn between bleak worry and sharp focus, between thoughts of his family and the job that could get him killed if he made even a single mistake, and now he was home again. In a safe-house, sure, but  _home._

_Home is where the heart is, love._

His mum's words whispered through his mind, clearer than they had been in years. Maybe because of his sudden focus on family. Maybe because of the sharp reminder of how close he had come to losing them all. Maybe for the memories of calm and love and the bleak darkness that had followed when it had been torn away.

Yassen had already left for the day to handle some of the many necessities on their list. John still had to decide on a course of action. He was no closer to an answer than he had been the night before but he had pushed it aside for now. Let his subconsciousness get a chance to mull it over. It wouldn't hurt.

Helen helped Matilda with her breakfast. Alex was curled up on the couch next to John himself with a bowl of cereal and morning cartoons. Maybe they should eat at the table like a family but neither of them was in any rush to disturb the kids. Alex obviously needed the closeness, and Matilda needed her mother's undivided attention after a week of …

… A week of everything John had tried to plan for and hoped they would never need.

The cartoon was familiar but Alex was distracted, that much was obvious. The restless shifts, the way he played with the increasingly soggy cereal with his spoon. John didn't say anything, though. Just let Alex take whatever time he needed.

The cereal bowl was still mostly full and the contents close to mush by the time Alex spoke.

"Mum said they were looking for you and James. The men."

It had only ever been a matter of time before Alex asked questions. Eventually, something would happen or he would be old enough to wonder. Helen had told him enough to settle the question until things were calmer again. John was not surprised that Alex would ask again.

"They worked for – a group. Of criminals," John said.

_\- Murderers, terrorists, torturers, assassins, intelligence agents -_

"I pretended to work for them to figure out who they were and how to stop them." Which was … the simplest way John could put it. They had discussed it already and decided to give Alex as much of the truth as they could afford but the last thing John wanted was to share the gruesome details. Not now, and hopefully never.

Alex was silent for a few seconds. "Mum said that, too. You were a soldier."

A heartbeat. John didn't answer because Alex clearly wasn't looking for that. Then he continued. "What about Jamie?"

And there it was, the intelligence and sharp nose for deception that John wasn't sure where he had picked up – because until now, Alex had known nothing but the safe, comfortable life as Alex Morrison – but which John didn't doubt would serve him well as he grew up.

Maybe it was the careful contingency plans Alex had grown up with. Maybe it had been an accidental side effect of Helen's pragmatic and somewhat pessimistic view of the world. Maybe it was genetic. It wasn't a conversation he would have expected to have with any other seven-year-old but he wasn't that surprised he had it now with Alex.

They had discussed the issue of Yassen as well. Alex had known nothing but James Morrison, either, and James Morrison was a lie. They were brothers in everything but blood by now despite Yassen's refusal to get attached but eventually Alex would have to learn the truth.

Wasn't it better he heard it now, from people he trusted, and not their enemies instead? John would do whatever he could to keep them safe but that was no guarantee and a lie of that magnitude … he could vividly imagine what Rothman or Three or the rest of the Board could do with a weakness like that.

One day John would need to prepare Alex for that sort of possibility. Alex and Matilda both. He didn't want to share the gruesome details but Hunter, pragmatic and sharp and lethally protective, knew they might not get that choice.

"James was my student when I worked undercover," John eventually said. "I left to be with you and your mum. The people I worked for back then faked my death so we would be safe, but James figured out it was a lie and found us. We realised that if he could figure it out, other people could, too, so we left. We moved from London to Geneva when you were just a baby. I didn't want to leave James to survive on his own so I convinced him to come with us. The group of criminals didn't like it when people tried to leave so he became a target, too."

This time the silence stretched longer. Alex was a smart kid but John's answer was a lot to absorb and carried a lot of unsaid things. John didn't doubt there would be questions; he only wondered where Alex would start. He got his answer long seconds later.

"So James isn't my brother." Alex's voice was soft and quiet and hurt, and John's heart twisted at the sound of it.

He shouldn't have been surprised that this was what Alex latched on to. Alex loved Yassen. And Yassen, whatever he was, however many traumas he carried around, cared enough to play with Alex, to babysit, to help him with homework, and to save a few sentimental things from their old home in what had been an extremely risky move.

"Yassen," John started and felt the way Alex tensed against him at the unfamiliar name; wrapped his arm around Alex and pressed a kiss to his blond locks, "-  _James_  is your brother in everything but blood. He loves you. You've always been the younger brother he never got. Alex, there is no one else in the world that Yassen Gregorovich would charter a helicopter for and go camping with in Russia for two weeks. There is no one else he would allow to use him as a jungle gym. There is no one else he would allow to fall asleep against him, much less sit through an hour and a half of cartoons for because he didn't want to wake you up to turn off the TV."

Alex stayed silent and John tried to figure out where his thoughts had headed off to. Alex loved Yassen, and the foundation of Alex's entire world had just been pulled away underneath him. Their home, Geneva, their future safety, and now Yassen as well.

"He was nineteen when he became my student," John continued when Alex still didn't speak. "He wasn't even an adult. I saved his life, I taught him everything I knew that might keep him alive, and I tried to convince him to leave and make a life far away from the criminals he worked for. He wasn't my son but he could easily have been. Making him my son helped all of us hide from those people and it gave James a family. He could have left when he had learned enough to survive on his own but he didn't. He never left you, Alex. Whatever else happened, he's always made time to come back to see you."

Silence. Alex still played with the cereal-mush with his spoon, his entire focus on the bowl. John should probably have stopped it but right now Alex had more than enough to think about.

"Yassen," Alex finally said, "is a stupid name."

He sounded distinctly unimpressed with the name, unimpressed and a little sullen, but the hurt was gone. John smiled though Alex didn't see it. "His real name is Yasha but someone heard it wrong once and thought it was 'Yassen'. He's been Yassen ever since."

First because he had been in no position to argue with his  _owner_  and later because he had been in no position to argue with SCORPIA, either. No one had cared if Yassen  _liked_  the name and by now it was simply who he was. John's explanation was a lot more suitable for young ears, though.

"It sounds Russian."

John wasn't surprised Alex picked up on that, either, not after two weeks in Russia. Proud but not really surprised.

"It is."

He didn't elaborate and Alex didn't ask. There were undoubtedly other things on his mind than Yassen's name.

On the TV, the cartoon had ended and the endless commercials started instead. John doubted Alex could have told him what show they had just watched, his focus still on the cereal mush.

"Do we have to stay here?"

The safe-house was a cosy little thing that had everything they needed but John would readily admit it was a world removed from their life in Geneva. From suburbia to the German forests, from modern convenience to something closer to an old-fashioned cabin, from plenty of playmates to – mostly solitude and parents who watched over them like a hawk. Alex didn't even have his own room any more.

"For now," John admitted. "It'll be a few months, probably. Then we'll find a new home."

"Not in Geneva," Alex said and it wasn't a question, not with the quiet resignation in his voice.

"Not in Geneva," John agreed.

Alex fell silent again but the tight grip on his spoon spoke volumes. Angry and upset; that horrible sense of injustice and being utterly powerless to do anything about it.

"I don't want to. I want to go home."

"We can't." The words hurt; the childhood that had just been torn from Alex, everything they had tried to protect them from, but John carried on. "It's too dangerous. Those people are still looking for us. If we go back, they'll find us."

This time Alex looked up with a glare. "I don't care."

Which – wasn't unexpected, either, if John was honest. Alex was seven years old. He had managed so much better the past week than they had feared he would and John was so proud of him it hurt, but Alex was still just a kid. Still just seven, violently removed from everything he had grown up with and with more questions than answers about his future.

"I know," John said. "I wish we could have stayed, too. But it's too dangerous. We'll find a great new house, new school, lots of new friends."

He knew he had said something wrong the second Alex's expression shifted, from glare to stormy anger.

" _No!_  I want to go home! This place is stupid and you're stupid and always working and  _I hate you!_ "

Split-second reflexes and finely-honed instincts let John grab the bowl of cereal before Alex could throw it. It probably wasn't what MI6 and SCORPIA had expected him to use his priceless training for but he would take what he could get.

" _Alex!"_

In that moment his voice was more Malagosto-instructor than father and the response was instant. Alex froze mid-motion, halfway off the couch, and the guilt hit like a sledgehammer. Even now, almost eight years later, Hunter and SCORPIA still lurked in his mind. The position at Malagosto had been a privileged chance to get his hands on valuable intel, sure, but John had also enjoyed it. He had  _liked_  the job, liked his students, liked teaching.

It had not been an angry tone of voice but it had demanded absolute obedience and Alex had reacted as instantly as any one of John's students had.

"Alex," John repeated; softer, gentler, and quietly apologetic. He put the bowl back on the table, well out of Alex's reach, and willed himself to be  _John_  and not Hunter.

Alex hesitated but settled back down, the anger swept away by … not fear, at least John could say that much, but definitely caution. Across the room, halfway out of her chair as well, Helen settled back down to soothe Matilda who had been frightened by the sudden shouting.

"I know you want things to go back to normal," John said softly. "I know you want to go back to Geneva. We do, too; your mum and Matilda and James and me. We can't. It's too dangerous. I wish this whole mess had never happened but I can't change it. All I can do is try to keep you, all three of you, as safe as I can."

Maybe it was a little too blunt for a seven-year-old – seven-and-a-half – but John had never believed in coddling Alex and he wasn't going to start now. Alex needed to know. The fact that they had always made him take those emergency drills seriously, that they had always treated him like he was older than his actual age, that they had always tried to explain things – John knew that was very likely the only reason Helen had had enough time to kill those four attackers and escape. The fact that Alex hadn't panicked and had known to listen and not ask questions until they were safe.

A part of him felt guilty. A much bigger part of him accepted that he could do nothing to change the past and that all that mattered now was that they were safe. All of them.

Alex was silent. In the kitchen, Matilda had calmed down. It was quiet enough that John could hear the old-fashioned clock slowly tick away, second by second.

Finally Alex broke the silence. "… What if they come back?"

And there it was, the fear that John had expected. Alex had spent long minutes in that safe-room with no idea of when or if his mother would be back and with the terrifying knowledge that he would be the sole person responsible for his little sister if everything went wrong.

"Then your mum will stop them again," he said softly. "But James and me will do whatever we can to make sure they never try again."

They had failed once. They had stayed in Geneva for too long, grown too complacent, and that wouldn't happen again. John would find a way to send a message to SCORPIA that somehow had to balance perfectly between 'ineffective' and 'declaration of war', and they would make sure to never get that overconfident again. Helen's message followed by a week straight of nightmares about everything that could have gone wrong was … something John would do everything in his power to keep from happening again.

Alex swallowed. "Promise?"

The guilt burned again, acid and lead in John's chest, but he pushed it aside to hug Alex tightly instead. Alex stilled for a moment, then seemed to just give up and cling to his father with everything he had and every bit of fear he hadn't been able to show for an endless week of uncertainty.

"Promise," John said. "I promise. Whatever it takes."

Between two of the best contract killers in the world, they would find a way. Find a way, or make one.

* * *

Yassen returned in the late afternoon. Hunter met him outside, undoubtedly alerted by the sound of the car. In other circumstances, Yassen might have been worried. As it was, Hunter looked serious but not concerned. Yassen expected it was news he wanted to share in private, then, because he could think of no other reason why Hunter would meet him outside. There was something he needed to say and he needed to say it before Yassen did anything else, including enter the house. Something serious but not something that would put them at risk or Hunter's reaction would have been very different.

"Alex knows," Hunter told him and did not bother with a greeting. "He asked questions I couldn't answer without getting into old SCORPIA history."

It – wasn't really a surprise. Alex was an intelligent child and Yassen had expected those questions sooner or later, and certainly after everything that had happened in Geneva.

It still didn't stop the sudden, sharp stab of … something that Yassen wasn't willing to examine too closely. They had known they would have to come clean one day. Yassen had just hoped it wouldn't be quite this soon. He appreciated the warning but it did little to help the unease.

He nodded once and walked past Hunter. The man didn't follow, and when Yassen stepped inside the house he was not surprised to find that Helen and Matilda were not present, either. Only Alex was there, a new book in front of him, and the boy glanced up and froze at the sight of him.

For long seconds, neither of them moved. Yassen had long since been trained out of any visible signs of unease. Alex was usually a bundle of boundless energy but he had just had his entire world destroyed beneath his feet; first in Geneva and now once more. His stillness was unusual but not entirely unexpected, either.

Finally Alex moved. He got up, slower and more cautious than usual and the play of emotions on his face was wariness and hurt and painfully familiar determination.

Alex was a world removed from Yassen's own childhood. Wealth against poverty, self-defence lessons against military training, elite schooling against whatever the State had decided was appropriate to learn. Alex had also learned the brutal realities of the world at seven and now had to adjust to the sort of life they had hoped to spare him.

What had Yassen himself been like at seven? He barely remembered any more. In retrospect, he had been painfully ignorant. Shielded by his parents as much as they could and unaware of the bleak realities around him.

Alex stopped in from of him and Yassen knew that whatever Hunter's son might be, ignorant was unlikely to be on the list for much longer.

"Yassen," Alex said, very deliberate, "is a  _stupid_  name."

Of all the possible reactions Yassen had considered, that had not been one of them. He still found himself answering before he even had time to consider it.

"Have you asked your father what other names they considered for you? I believe Cuthbert was on the list. Archibald, too. Your mother vetoed them."

Alex frowned. "You made that up."

"Possibly," Yassen agreed blandly, "Archibald."

" _Yassen."_  Alex presented the name like it was the argument to end all discussion.

" _Cuthbert,"_  Yassen repeated quite deliberately and sounded out every syllable in the same careful, precise way he did all things. " _Cuthbert Archibald Wilhelmina Morrison_."

Alex fell silent again. For long seconds, neither spoke. For a brief few moments, Alex had been able to ignore it all but reality intruded again swiftly enough; familiar joking a painful reminder that Yassen was not, in the end, the brother Alex had believed him to be. Whatever Hunter and Helen said, however little they seemed to care for the lack of blood ties, that did not change the truth.

Then something seemed to decide things for Alex because the boy moved and the instant later he clung to Yassen in a tight grip, every bit as desperate as when Yassen had first arrived in the safe-house.

Something in Yassen eased at the reaction, the tension in his muscles and the unease he still wasn't quite willing to acknowledge, and he picked Alex up and felt the child's grip on him tighten further.

It wouldn't be long before it would be too awkward to do even that. Alex was no longer the small, energetic toddler that Yassen could carry on his shoulders but a rapidly growing child. Still young but … older. And far older mentally now than he had been mere weeks ago.

Alex didn't speak. Yassen didn't force him to. Just held the boy until his grip eased and he allowed Yassen to put him back down again.

"Can we go flying again?" Alex finally asked, and that was apparently it.

However mature Alex might be, he was still just seven years old and fascinated by helicopters. Even now, his attention span was still limited at best. He had the reassurance he needed for now. Perhaps he would want that reassurance again later, proof that Yassen had no intention of leaving, but for now his attention span for such discussions had obviously reached its limit.

"Next summer," Yassen promised and meant it. Another couple of weeks immersed in the Russian language would do him well. Alex had an ear for languages and that was something to encourage.

That was for the future, though. For now, there were other concerns. A new house. New names. New identities. And for Hunter and Yassen himself, to find those responsible for the attack, take revenge, and ensure no one else would be tempted to try the same.

That was not something Alex needed to know, however. For now, the promise of summer and helicopters was enough.


	9. Part IX: Bonn (IV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in which people talk. A lot. For a story about two contract killers, there's a depressing lack of murders right now.

Alex clung to Yassen in the days that followed the admission that Yassen – that  _James_  – wasn't technically his brother. John had mostly expected it and it was leagues better than the alternative. If Alex had reacted badly to it, if he had refused to even listen to the explanations … it wasn't something John particularly wanted to think about. He had too many other things to worry about without adding could-have-beens to the list.

At the very top of that list, as it had been for almost a decade by now, was SCORPIA. Mostly as an ominous, ever-present threat and  _avoid at all cost_ _s_ , but now joined by … more present concerns.

It was no easy job ahead of them. Hunter's first-hand experiences with SCORPIA were eight years out of date. Yassen's were only marginally less and were also from a much less important position than Hunter's had been. That didn't mean they started from scratch, though. SCORPIA had grown, expanded, become increasingly powerful … but the Board remained the same. A little smaller, a little older, a little more experienced, but the same people that John had made it his business to understand because his survival and success depended on it. SCORPIA had grown but the core remained the same. That in turn meant that John's understanding of the organisation was about as comprehensive as any outsider's could be, and much better than the majority of SCORPIA's own lower-ranking people.

Yassen had learned over the years through exposure and John's lessons but he didn't have the same practical experience that John did. Between the two of them, though, and their combined sources … it was a start. Nowhere near enough for John's purposes but enough to know where to look for better intel.

"It was most likely a local job," John told Yassen. "The Zurich, Berlin, or Paris offices would be my guess, in that order. Venice is a possibility, too, but Rothman runs a tighter ship than that. Most likely Zurich just based on proximity alone."

It was the last days of September, and even in the bright noon sun, the first whisper of colder days lingered in the air. Helen and the kids were in Bonn to handle shopping. It gave John and Yassen a chance to talk shop away from innocent ears and let them get an idea of how Alex might handle being in public again after everything.

John didn't  _like_  having them out in the open and exposed but Helen and Alex had both dyed their hair and Helen was a practical woman who knew the risks and had the training to stay unnoticed. Alex had never had formal lessons but circumstances had forced that now. Short trips would be a good way to learn before they had to adapt to entirely new identities.

The fact that John would have to leave them again – and leave again soon – was something he didn't want to linger on.

Yassen nodded but didn't speak. John hadn't expected him to, either. Yassen was not a talkative man and this was not that different from their normal missions. More personal but not all that different.

It would also, John would admit, be slightly more his sort of job than Yassen's. More hands-on. More brutal. More bloody.

"We should be able to get some information from our own contacts but we'll have to be careful," he continued. "Especially since SCORPIA knows we're hunting now. We'll go for surveillance for as much as possible, and then a couple of select targets to interrogate. As close to the attack as possible; that'll cut down on the risk that their disappearances will raise any red flags."

Even now, even after years, even with Yassen's reputation slowly approaching John's own, he couldn't help but slip into his old role as Yassen's teacher. Yassen wasn't the lost teenager any more but John doubted they would ever entirely lose that dynamic. John had age and years of varied experience and training on his side and Yassen soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Whatever advantage John could give, Yassen would accept.

Yassen still didn't speak. Just listened with that sharp, familiar focus.

"When we find the right target," John said and put words to his plan for the first time since he had decided on it during long, restless hours in the darkness of their bedroom, "I want every single one of them dead. No collateral damage. No massive property destruction. Finesse and skill. And while the choice is entirely yours – if you agree to it, I want it to be absolutely clear that we both had an even part in it."

John didn't immediately explain but let Yassen work it out on his own. Yassen didn't want his hand held. He wanted the chance to consider the situation at his own pace.

John hadn't given him much to work with. He wasn't surprised when Yassen worked part of it out, anyway. The kid was frighteningly intelligent. Sometimes John wondered what Yassen could have become if someone had paid attention a little sooner, if someone had seen his potential and nurtured it before Estrov and SCORPIA and everything else. The KGB would have loved him.

"It would be better for your reputation if my involvement was not known, even if it would be strongly suspected that you did not manage it alone. Politics, then," Yassen finally said with the annoyance that always followed that word.

… And maybe the KGB wouldn't have liked him  _that_  much after all, John admitted to himself. The intelligence world thrived on politics. Yassen Gregorovich did not.

"Politics," John agreed. "SCORPIA understands three languages – violence, money, and politics. I'm thirty-seven years old, Yassen. Close to forty. You're too young to feel it yourself yet, you're still in your prime, but the human body goes downhill early. You'll feel it by forty. You've got no business in the field at forty-five, not if you want to stay alive. I want to make sure to send a message strong enough that they'll listen and clear enough that it won't leave any doubts. They attacked Helen and the kids. I want to be damn sure it never happens again but that doesn't change the fact that a retired assassin is a target. I've got SCORPIA with a grudge, and a reputation that makes me valuable. One man with a family, older and retired from field work … that's a tempting target. A retired assassin with a protégé still in the field, someone with the skills and enough emotional investment to care … that's a much less attractive target when someone will be around to retaliate."

It was the selfish part of John's reasoning and he knew it. He had never claimed to be a selfless man, and Yassen knew that, too.

That reason alone would have been enough. Even with as skittish as Yassen was at times, he still adored Alex and had taken uncharacteristically large risks just to let Helen and the kids keep a few things from Geneva. If John asked, Yassen would agree.

Yassen didn't speak, though John could see that sharp mind fast at work. So much potential. So much talent. It was never the sort of life that John had wanted for him, but Yassen had learned and adapted and thrived and John could accept that. Yassen would be among the best someday – and probably soon – but that didn't change the fact that for now and for all his experience, Yassen was still learning.

"You already have a reputation of your own, and you'll be one of the best assassins in the world one day, but you're known for your sniper skills above all else," John continued with the same bluntness that always seemed to work best with Yassen. "Precision work. Ruthless precision, sure, but still the sort of speciality that makes some people decide you'll be an easy target outside of the field. They're wrong, and those skills don't make you any less lethal than someone who prefers the  _personal_  approach, but it's still something you need to be aware of. I want to make it clear that you have the ability to slip into a secure home and kill every single person there and never raise a single alarm. That your skills with a rifle doesn't make you any less deadly in person and that you are perfectly willing to get your hands bloody."

Which any sensible person in their line of work should  _know_  but John had met too many people without even that degree of common sense to count on it. Reputations on their level were larger than life; summed up in a codename or a few words and without any of the nuances.

_Hunter_  was the most talented freelance assassin of his generation, a virtuoso with any weapon he touched, and that reputation didn't care how carefully he selected his weapons and missions to give that impression or how many hours he put into keeping up those skills. There were perhaps half a dozen assassins of his level but they were all gainfully employed in assassin-terms and most of them had specialised in something. Hunter, by necessity, hadn't had any option but to take his already impressive reputation and turn it into a living legend. Not if he wanted to survive with SCORPIA actively hunting him. Not if he wanted to keep his family safe.

_Cossack_  was a rising star if still not considered on the same level as Hunter, but John planned to change that. Yassen had to be every bit as untouchable as Hunter was. Assassins had no preferences, no identity, no habits, and while Yassen's sniper skills would make him a legend one day, that had also slowly become what people remembered him for. Those impossible shots.

Yassen Gregorovich cared little about murder these days but sometimes John still wondered if his career as a sniper hadn't been a last, subconscious attempt to protect himself a little. It was still murder but nowhere near as messy and personal as John's jobs ended up sometimes.

It wasn't that John minded. Yassen was exceptionally skilled with a sniper rifle. If it helped him come to terms with his career as well, then that was just a bonus. It would just … take a few thorough examples to make sure Yassen's reputation would be just as lethal and intimidating as John's was.

"I want to make it clear to anyone who might get tempted by your bounty that if you can do that sort of thing to a SCORPIA station chief, you can easily do the same to anyone else. I'm a selfish man. I want my family safe and that includes you. I want Helen and the kids out of harm's way and I want you to have a reputation that makes you untouchable. Never try to speak to SCORPIA through money, that'll cost you more than you could ever afford, but we can use violence and politics. They'll get the point."

Yassen stayed silent as he considered the explanation. John let him. That was how Yassen worked. Offer the choice. Let him make the decision. Never push but give him whatever time he needed it. Even if they both knew what the decision would be, Yassen wanted the choice. He was still full of spite; stubborn and contrary and proud, and John didn't blame him. That had been the only thing he'd had left to hold on to for a long time. It had been the thing that had brought him back to SCORPIA as well, the vicious sense of betrayal that John still had to carefully navigate around. If that meant doing things on Yassen's terms, John could live with that.

Finally Yassen broke the silence. "SCORPIA will not take kindly to such a loss of employees."

"SCORPIA has already written them off as collateral damage."

John didn't bother to soften the words. The people in question probably didn't know. Most of them, John suspected, would have no idea of what had happened in the first place, and those high-ranking enough that they did would expect SCORPIA's reputation to keep them safe. John had enough experience with the executive board to know better.

"It's one station," he continued, "nothing more, and they've already made a bad impression when their mistakes lost the board the first credible lead they've had on us since London. It's expendable for the chance to see how I'll respond. If we keep it decisive but contained, the board will do the same."

"You have had no dealings with the board for eight years." Yassen's voice gave nothing away but John caught the meaning just fine.

_How do you know?_

"I haven't," he replied and knew Yassen would understand the underlying  _I don't_  as well. "This is my best guess based on the surviving members, my experience with them, and any internal politics that have found their way outside the organisation. Is it a risk? Absolutely. Not just the attack itself but SCORPIA's response if I've read them wrong and they decide it's more than they're willing to ignore. If Rothman or Kurst have gained more influence than I think, enough to control the rest of the board, this could backfire spectacularly. With Kroll around, I don't think so, but it's still a gamble."

The seconds stretched on. Yassen had always been a gifted student. He listened, he considered the information, he asked questions … and these days, with Yassen a trained professional, those questions were much more those of an equal than an inexperienced student. Yassen didn't necessarily doubt his approach, John knew, but he wanted as much information as he could get and the chance to make up his own mind.

"Zurich," Yassen said. "Not Berlin?"

"Berlin focuses more on business opportunities in Eastern Europe and I don't think they have enough connections in Switzerland to have done it. Zurich. That's my best guess."

John could be wrong, of course, but they would deal with that if that happened. It would set them back a week or two but nothing catastrophic. And if he was right … he had connections in Zurich. He hadn't spent all his time as Séamus. Hunter had been busy, too.

A heartbeat. Then a nod as Yassen agreed and something in John, something faint that had never quite vanished, eased at the gesture. He had never doubted what Yassen's decision would be but it was still reassuring to have it confirmed.

Intel, then. Surveillance. Find the best approach. Decide on their targets. Leave nothing alive.

Hunter had stayed out of SCORPIA's way for seven years. It was obviously time to remind the world around them that this was not a sign of weakness.

* * *

Helen Rider had learned to listen and read between the lines from a young age. It had come in depressingly handy even as an adult. First around several older doctors who saw their nurses as barely more than trained help in need of clear instructions and certainly no complicated explanations that might confuse their fragile little minds. Then around intelligence officers from MI5 and MI6 who were perhaps less condescending as a whole but even more tight-lipped about explanations than those doctors had ever been.

Helen had learned to read the silence, to focus on the omissions, and to work around the restrictions with gentle, harmless questions until she could slowly puzzle out the information she needed, one sliver of truth at a time.

Even John, as much as she loved him, was a master of saying nothing whatsoever of actual importance. He could talk someone's ear off if he wanted to but when it came to the important details, he could be stubborn as few others she knew. For their own protection, maybe, but that made it no less of an annoyance to her.

Helen had known that John and Yassen had business to discuss. She knew the moment she returned with Alex and Matilda from their trip to Bonn that something had been decided, too. She didn't say anything, though, and neither did John. Not until Alex was outside with Yassen, and Matilda had settled down with one of her new toys; a truck that was already sticky from fruit snacks and inquisitive toddler fingers.

"You're leaving," she said. She had known it would happen. It was sooner than she had expected but she had known. It didn't make the words any easier to speak.

"We are," John confirmed. "On Friday. I have some things I need to handle first but I want to move as fast as possible."

Quiet. Regretful, in the silence between the words. He was no happier about leaving his family behind this soon than Helen was to see him leave. See both of them leave. That, too, she had expected. Alex would be unhappy. Nothing to do about it. Just hope they returned home again soon, alive and safe. The alternative was unthinkable.

Three days, then. Her chest tightened, the nausea and smothering weight of anxiety, and she took a slow breath. Another. Nodded. There had always been that wisp of worry whenever John left, the reminder of the risks that came with his career. That wisp had grown into a thunderstorm since Geneva.

John, as observant as anyone she had known, reached out. Brushed her cheek with calloused fingers and didn't need to speak.

_I'm sorry._

Helen took another slow, deliberate breath. Then she reached up to cover John's hand with her own.

_I know,_  she didn't need to say.

It had to be done. There was no alternative. To do nothing was to invite another attack. This was the best course of action. It didn't make it hurt any less, nor did it make the looming thunderstorm any less ominous.

Helen was not helpless. There were four dead bodies somewhere in Switzerland that could testify to that. She had killed and would do it again if that was what it took to protect her family. It did not ease her worry, nor did it in any way make her forget what else those bodies meant.

SCORPIA knew she could defend herself now. SCORPIA, and soon enough anyone else with the connections to get that kind of information. If they were attacked again, she would not have the advantage of ignorant assassins or hired muscle expecting a defenceless housewife.

And still the realistic part of her knew that however dangerous their situation might be, it was still safer than John's time with SCORPIA had been. He wasn't surrounded by enemies, and if something went wrong, he had Yassen with him, too. He wasn't alone. He wasn't at the mercy of some mercurial superior – SCORPIA's executive board or Alan Blunt, it really wasn't much difference to Helen these days – and he had eight years of experience since then.

It was not a welcome situation they were in, and they had the children to worry about now as well, but they had still been through worse, and Helen clung to that thought.

They'd had seven calm and undisturbed years. If this went well, they could have even longer before anything similar happened again.

_Again._

It was a thought Helen didn't want to linger on. It might not happen but she was painfully aware that the odds were against it.

John shifted his hand until it rested by her throat, warm and gentle. The kiss was not the desperation of the first night back but the slow, lingering reassurance that he was  _there_ , that they both were, and Helen melted into his embrace.

Outside was the whisper of Alex's laugh, muted by thick walls. Under the dining table, Matilda's truck rolled across the wooden floor, trailing children's music in its wake.

Friday would come soon enough. There were a hundred little things to handle before that. But for now, those could wait.

* * *

Ian Rider got the news in person, still tired from an absurdly early military flight from Bosnia and with a return flight looming just a couple of hours away.

He was in London for a debriefing, nothing else. Tulip Jones wanted it in person, which Ian understood but didn't particular have to like. He was done with the undercover part of his most recent mission but still tangled up in the inevitable clean-up that followed. It would probably be another month before he could leave the rest of the mess to someone else and get back to London properly.

Ian had prepared everything in advance. It still took the better part of three hours before Tulip was satisfied, and her secretary looked just as quietly relieved as Ian was when Tulip finally closed the folder.

"Thank you, Suzanne."

The secretary nodded and slipped outside, a solid stack of notes in her hand. The door closed behind her. When Ian looked back at Tulip, there was a new folder on her desk.

"You have a niece," she said.

Ian, who had expected that folder to add another few weeks of work to his current assignment, took a moment to process that.

_Niece?_

The meaning hit the instant later, sharp and clear in a surge of adrenaline.

_John._

Someone had found them. If Ian had a niece, then  _someone had found them._ John and Helen and Alex and – his niece.

"Are they all right?"

Ian had a dozen questions but he wanted the most important one out of the way; the cold dread in his body and the awful realisation that his brother could be dead. That all of them could be dead, John and Helen and Alex, and that he was told because there was  _no one else_  to take care of the girl. His  _niece._

"To the best of our knowledge." Tulip had to have realised the impression the words had given him because she looked faintly sympathetic in a Tulip sort of way. "They lived in Geneva for the past seven years. Helen and the children were attacked when John and Yassen were away. Helen killed the intruders and escaped with Alex and Matilda. There are no indications that they were harmed in the attack. Helen made two phone calls, presumably to John and Yassen, but there has been no trace of them since. We expect they've gone to ground."

Ian nodded. Felt the grip of fear ease.

_Alex and Matilda._

He had a name for her now, at least. And Alex. The last time Ian had seen him, he had been a newborn. He would be seven and a half by now. He would be in school, have friends, play sports. A world away from the tiny baby Ian had last seen snuggled against Helen.

Tulip took several photos from the folder and slid them across the desk to Ian. The first one was of Helen and the kids and looked like the sort of family photo you sent in Christmas cards or kept on your desk at work.

Helen looked much like herself. A little older, with a different haircut and the first, faint lines that would eventually become wrinkles, but much like herself otherwise. Alex looked … so much like the childhood photos Ian had of John that it physically hurt. His hair was lighter and his features were softer – from youth and Helen's genes both, it looked like – but the rest of him was … very John. From before everything had gone off the rails. When they were still children and the most they had to worry about was getting into trouble. Matilda looked maybe two, Ian had never been good at guessing that sort of thing, and even that young her parentage was obvious. She had the same brown eyes as Alex, the same fair hair, and the same softness from Helen.

Tulip waited patiently until Ian looked up again before she spoke.

"You can keep them. They're all copies. That one was taken sometime this summer. Matilda was born on the third of October, so she's about to turn two. Helen kept her at home, we assume for security reasons. Alex was kept at home until he started preschool, too. He attends – attended – an international school in Geneva, played soccer several times a week, speaks three languages, and is from all reports a social, intelligent child. Since John clearly trained Helen to defend herself and their children, we suspect Alex likely also has self-defence and firearms training but we have no evidence of either."

It sounded more like an intelligence report than an update on his family but Ian didn't mind. It was the best Tulip could offer him, glimpses of the nephew and niece he'd had no chance to see grow up in person. She hadn't needed to tell him anything at all. This was solely Tulip Jones' rare compassion making a brief appearance. Out of fondness for John or Helen or Ian himself, he didn't know, and it didn't matter much either way.

This was the first real update of any sort Ian had been given since John left, beyond the general awareness that his brother was now a world-class contract killer. Which … Ian still wasn't sure what to think about. He had burned the postcard John had sent him but he still remembered the contents and every single line and curve of the hand-written message.

_I did the brotherly thing this time. Get that careless again, and next time I'll take the shot._

_Careless._ John had trained Alex just like he had trained Helen, Ian had no doubts about that. It would be criminal neglect not to with the sort of enemies they had and John's message had been clear on his opinion on that sort of thing. Some might have taken it as a threat. Ian had understood the risk John had taken when he had sent it in the first place and accepted the warning for what it was. Concern – harsh and brutal, but still in some ways the older brother trying to give advice the best way he could.

Ian didn't respond, not to agree or to disagree, though Tulip undoubtedly knew he agreed with MI6's assessment.

The second photo was a small group of friends, the sort of photo taken a lazy summer evening with wine and good company in what was obviously the garden of an expensive home. Money, though based on the general appearance of the group Ian guessed self-made rather than inherited wealth. He spotted the reason for the photo immediately.

John looked – a lot less like himself than Ian had expected. The analytical part of his mind, the MI6 agent, noticed and appreciated what had to be the result of subtle plastic surgery, so skilfully done that only his knowledge of John's natural looks revealed that anything was off. Greying hair – Ian didn't have a strand of grey himself yet, but it had been rampant on their mother's side of the family, and it wasn't like they had seen each other often even before the whole SCORPIA mess. Not after they joined different branches of the armed forces. It was very likely genetics rather than careful hair dye, then.

Body language was hard to read through a single photo but John looked … casual. Relaxed. Well-dressed but not overly so, and with a friendly smile that looked genuine.

He looked harmless. Deceptively so.

"His cover was that of an independent investment banker," Tulip continued. "Successful enough to provide well for his family but not suspiciously so and generally described as a charming if somewhat absent-minded man, a good father, and a devoted husband."

In short, exactly the sort of person absolutely no one would suspect of anything worse than a bit of insider trading. Based on the photo, Ian wasn't surprised. John looked the part, too, and while it wasn't the sort of cover he would have expected from his brother, it was a good choice. A good cover for the money he made from his actual job and as long as he stuck to index funds, he probably hadn't lost money doing it, either.

The last photo, obviously taken during Christmas, was not as recent. Alex looked about five and the man with Alex – mid-twenties, pale, blond – looked … uncomfortably, naggingly familiar in a way that Ian couldn't put his finger on. They looked like family, Ian realised the second later. Maybe their looks didn't match entirely but Alex was obviously happy to have him there and the man in turn looked … patiently amused.

"Yassen Gregorovich," Tulip said. "Ironically, that is probably the most recent decent-quality photo we have of him. On paper he was John's barely legitimate son from a previous relationship and even lived with John and Helen the first few years. He hasn't kept up a social presence the way John has and had a gift for avoiding cameras even when he still lived in Geneva, so we have very few photos to work with. Officially he's a pilot. He gained his licence five years ago."

_Yassen Gregorovich._

The name clicked instantly and no wonder he had seemed so naggingly familiar to Ian. They had photos but Gregorovich hadn't been more than twenty when John had left London, and the photos they had acquired since then weren't exactly good. Good enough that Ian saw the similarities. Not enough to make it click before Tulip gave him a name to work with.

_Barely legitimate son._

God forbid John Rider did anything the normal way. Ian had known John had kept Gregorovich as a student.  _This_  was news.

_Yassen Gregorovich._  The contract killer that had quickly become a rising star in the criminal underworld, and Alex had grown up with him as his  _half-brother._  And just as obviously adored him. The same man who, at the age of nineteen, had graduated Malagosto and killed four MI6 agents in Mdina.

_John. What the hell were you thinking?_

"So basically John adopted a half-feral, Russian teenage assassin trained by the biggest freelance terrorist organisation in the world, made him even more lethal, and then let him babysit."

Was that a twitch of Tulip's lips? It might have been. That ghost of reluctant amusement. Good. Ian wanted someone to share the sheer absurdity of the situation with.

"Technically," Tulip corrected, "he was twenty and not a teenager. Though officially, James Morrison was eighteen when they moved to Geneva. John – Séamus – was thirty-five."

Which didn't make Ian feel better in the least but he supposed that made sense. The small shift in age would put John as just old enough that the relationship was plausible. Undoubtedly scandalous in their social circle in Geneva but … plausible. He wouldn't be the first seventeen-year-old with a kid.

"Our theory was always that Yassen warned John about SCORPIA's plans based on his willingness to keep Yassen as his apprentice even as a freelancer. The fact that John took him into his house mostly confirms that theory." Tulip glanced at the photo. "For what it's worth, the reports describe him as intelligent if reserved and somewhat asocial but they all agree that he seems to be a good brother to Alex. The two of them were on vacation together this summer – in Russia, of all places – and Alex seems to think he hung the moon. There are no indications that he has ever been a danger to Alex."

Which … was all the reassurance Ian would get. He would just have to trust that John and Helen knew what they were doing. And pretend that his nephew hadn't been on vacation to Russia with a SCORPIA-trained assassin. Though to be fair, so was John.

Ian's attention lingered on the photo and the child in it one more time before he focused on Tulip.

"Do we know who was behind the attack?"

"Unknown. There are some indications it might have been SCORPIA but just as many that could indicate outsiders, possibly with the purpose of implicating SCORPIA. They're hardly short on enemies, John and SCORPIA both. We expect John will retaliate. His actions may give us a better idea of what happened … assuming, of course, it isn't simply kept as an internal matter and never reaches us."

Not unlikely, either. Ian wasn't exactly an expert in underworld politics but it wouldn't be the first time conflicts like that somehow managed to be kept away from overly curious intelligence agencies. It was still weird to think of John as part of that world but that didn't change the facts. John had just as much incentive as anyone else in his line of work to keep intelligence interference to a minimum.

Tulip closed to the folder and something in her expression shifted as she once more became Alan Blunt's right hand and Ian's superior.

Ian sat a little straighter.

"Officially, you never saw this, Agent Rider," she said. "I wanted to give you what intel we have on your family. Don't make me regret that."

It was not a surprise. It wasn't Ian's responsibility and based on his personal ties to the case, it never would be. Maybe he had the clearance for it, maybe he didn't, but MI6 would make sure it never crossed his desk in any official capacity. Tulip Jones had taken a risk – maybe out of simple sympathy, maybe to avoid that Ian himself heard something and went digging. Either way, Ian appreciated it.

He nodded. "Thank you, ma'am."

Tulip's expression softened fractionally again, though only to those who knew her as well as Ian did. "Dismissed."

Ian slipped the photos into his own folder and left the office, letting his thoughts drift as he walked to the lift. He would have just enough time to drop them off at home. Tulip had given him a lot already, though not anywhere near as much as Ian expected to find in John's file. Most of that was likely to be details about John's new career, though, and less about his family.

Maybe he would try to dig a little on his own, anyway. Try some of his own contacts. That was something for another time, though. For now, he had some photos to hide and a military flight to catch.


	10. Part X: Zurich (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for … uh. Hunter being Hunter. Seriously, like half of this chapter is more-or-less implied torture. I've tried to keep it …  _not graphic_  but. Uh. Yeah.

Zurich was different as Hunter.

Séamus Morrison had been there often enough. He didn't work in the city but he had been there at least monthly since they moved to Geneva. Business meetings, networking events, research, dinners with various social circles – it wasn't home but it was a familiar place. Séamus has liked it. It had been a bit of a drive from Geneva, true, but he had frequently made a two-day trip of it and brought gifts home for Caroline and the kids.

The familiarity was the same but without Séamus' affable veneer, it was also – sharper. The contrasts harder, the buildings both suitable vantage points and potential death traps, the people no longer bright, colourful company but a shifting mass of possible threats and potential hiding spots for both himself and any possible enemies.

SCORPIA's main presence in the city was under the cover of a security company. Good enough to have a decent reputation and otherwise average enough not to draw attention. They were known for their somewhat rough business practices and a truly impressive string of unpaid parking tickets, but they were also known to offer a second chance and a job to ex-convicts that no one else wanted to hire, and it all seemed to somehow even out in the end.

In another world, John knew, where that bar fight might not have been a carefully staged MI6 assassination and undercover ploy in one, he might have ended up working for SCORPIA, anyway. It was a perfectly decent security job and with a family to support, he would have asked no questions. Neither, he expected, did anyone else. SCORPIA, whatever name they used, didn't invite questions. Overly curious employees didn't last long and ex-convicts who had finally managed to land a normal job that didn't care about their past would have little incentive to risk that.

The company was located in Zurich's more industrial neighbourhood, a bit of an outlier among science and technology businesses but no more unusual of an addition than the odd bank or coffee place or accounting firm. John had kept a careful eye on them even as Séamus. It saved him a lot of time now that he had the groundwork done already.

Beside him, dressed like any other utility worker, Yassen lowered his coffee cup. It was warm for the first days of October. A number of people had found their way outside for lunch; John and Yassen were only two among them.

"They are tense." Yassen didn't glance at the building as he spoke but picked up his sandwich instead, his attention to all intents and purposes entirely focused on lunch.

John made a slight hum. Tense was the right word. Nothing obvious, nothing paranoid, just … a little more on edge than they should have been. Security looked a little heavier than John had recorded before as well but even that wasn't anything too obvious. Maybe it wasn't entirely enough to confirm his suspicions that the Zurich branch was behind the attack, but it was another heavy piece of evidence to consider.

"Someone warned them. I doubt their boss told them the whole truth so they've probably just been told that there's been a threat to the company. Possibly even that whatever underling actually caused this mess wasn't executed for catastrophic incompetence and disloyalty but that they were a target of whatever enemy their boss claims is threatening the company instead. Make them understand the threat but without admitting to that sort of dirty laundry."

John could be wrong but his gut feeling told him no. SCORPIA didn't exactly encourage anything that might threaten that image of infallibility. The current station chief – Patrick Kraus, a name which was undoubtedly fake – would be caught between admitting that one of his most trusted people had been unreliable and the very real risk that John posed. Hunter didn't have a reputation for patience or mercy. Hunter did, in fact, have several jobs to his name that had called for brutal, bloody vengeance and which he had delivered in full. The fact that it was a now-dead subordinate that had attacked his wife and children would in no way be enough to stay Hunter's hand. Kraus could not afford  _not_  to warn his people but that didn't mean the full truth didn't carry risks of its own.

Yassen didn't answer. Just slowly chewed his way through the sandwich with all the enthusiasm of someone in absolutely no rush to get back to work and with the lack of energy that only Monday could bring. No obvious glances. No obvious attention focused on their target. Just careful surveillance as they got their first look at their target in person.

"We won't be able to squeeze one of them for intel without raising any alarms, not when they're already on edge. We'll have to move fast instead and do what we can to create a bit of reasonable doubt," John continued. "It wouldn't be completely unlikely that a couple of people got cold feet and decided to leave with no notice with that sort of threat hanging over their heads. We can probably make that sort of cover hold for a day or two with the right target. Long enough to put their intel to good use to target someone a further up in the hierarchy. It's a little risky to push it too fast but our biggest advantage is the element of surprise. Even if they're on edge, we can still stay ahead of them. We just have to be careful about it."

"One of the security staff, then," Yassen concluded. "Not a high-ranking one or their disappearance would raise too many concerns, but still someone with the necessary knowledge of their security and the inner workings of the branch."

A twenty-seven, Yassen was a professional. John never forgot that but he also never quite forgot just how young Yassen had been once. How young he still was. John had looked at Yassen at nineteen and not seen even the shadow of a killer. Some days he still didn't. Even with seven years of blood and assassinations to his name, it was too easy to see the lost teenager Yassen had been once.

John dismissed the thought and focused on the present instead.

"We'll pick one today," he said. He had some options picked out based on the intel they already had but opportunity and convenience had a lot to say, too. "Follow him when he leaves. Snag him if we get the chance. Otherwise tomorrow."

Put like that, it sounded easy. In some ways it was. The place was tense but it wasn't the security of some of the jobs John had handled on his own. A bit more rushed, and the place was aware of the threat, but … perfect doable, and certainly with Yassen as support. It had nowhere near the security it could have, not even now, and it was pretty obvious to John why the Board was willing to write it off.

Kraus' overly-trusted employees and bad judgement in security had cost SCORPIA their only real lead on John. That wasn't the sort of subordinate the Board wanted or needed. Independence was only valued when it could be trusted, and such a lack of control of his employees … well. Bad investments rarely lasted long once something had brought them to light.

If John didn't handle it, it was only a matter of time before the Board did it instead. It was a rare time he found himself in agreement with them about anything.

High above, the autumn sun crawled across the sky. A couple of pigeons watched intently as Yassen finished his sandwich. Their target building remained as it was, slightly on edge and otherwise completely unremarkable.

John got up. Threw away his coffee cup. "Let's go."

Before they stayed for too long. Before they drew attention. There were other locations they could scout from.

Yassen didn't answer. Just wiped his hands and got up to follow.

* * *

Hunter's first choice of target proved – difficult. The man did not go home as expected but left in a company car along with two other employees in the mid-afternoon. It was an annoyance but not unexpected for a security company. It was enough to turn their attention to the other entries on the list instead, of which there were several.

The second option proved far more agreeable. The fact that the man worked for a security company and had undoubtedly been warned about the current danger had mattered little. He was cautious and watched for any tails, but not as closely as he should have, nor did he pay much attention to the somewhat tired-looking van from a plumbing service parked near his home. It would have been enough to spot most dangers, Yassen supposed, but their target should have known better and his overconfidence came at a high cost.

It took less than ninety seconds to have him vanish. A physical strike to subdue him, followed up by fast-working drugs, and by the time they had deposited the target in the back of the van, he was already unconscious.

"His breathing remains stable," Yassen reported as Hunter got behind the wheel. Slow, steady movements. It was a good sign. The drugs were a gamble based on the target's size and lack of medical history. There could be fatal allergies in the target's history. They had no way to know.

"If he dies," Hunter said, "we'll find another target to squeeze. It'll cost us a day, maybe, nothing we can't afford. Things never go entirely to plan. It's good practice for adapting to shifting situations."

It was not a surprise. Hunter had a reputation for callousness. Talented and lethal, adaptable and unnervingly lucky, and ruthlessly practical. Even that sort of situation could be turned into a teaching moment.

Hunter turned the key, the engine came to life, and the old, anonymous van turned a corner and vanished into the normal traffic in Zurich.

* * *

Yassen had seen Dr Three at work in person just once. Torture and interrogation had been mostly a theoretical class at Malagosto; books and video but no real practical experience. Yassen had been grateful for that at the time and in retrospect it made sense. The school was young and their class small. Three might have written the textbooks but a member of SCORPIA's executive board had far more valuable things to spend his time on. He only showed interest in the students if one happened to catch his attention, and that in an unwanted way more often than not.

Only once had the doctor taken time out of his busy schedule to visit the school along with their lesson for the day, an undercover agent who had been unfortunate enough to have been caught alive. Three had proceeded to lecture them the entire day as he took the man apart slowly and methodically – except, of course, the forty-five minutes he allowed for the lunch that also got served in the classroom for the occasion.

Yassen had avoided torture and interrogation since. He didn't have any real feelings for it one way or the other but he also hadn't gone out of his way to accept such offers. Even Hunter had avoided those jobs while Yassen remained his student.

A small part of Yassen wondered if that had been a slight concession towards Yassen himself after events in Paris so long ago, but it was not something he allowed himself to linger on.

Watching Hunter prepare now was … very different from Three's careful, precise approach. Logically, Yassen knew Hunter had accepted such jobs over the years. Not many, as his skills were expensive and better spent on other tasks, but he had not refused them, either. It was still different to see his preparations now.

Three, with a doctor's education and an entire terrorist organisation at his back, favoured a surgical setting. The sole practical display at Malagosto along with the videos had all taken place in clinically sterile surroundings that could have come from an operating room anywhere in a reasonably developed nation. It made no difference in the life spans of his subjects but perhaps the psychology behind worked to the doctor's benefit, or perhaps it was simply the man's background that showed. Whatever the reason, Yassen hadn't cared to wonder too much about it.

Hunter, on his own and practical above all else – Hunter had visited a hardware store.

Plastic sheeting and duct tape, along with painting supplies and several large buckets of wall paint for a convenient cover. A hammer and a box of nails joined the pile as well, the sort of supplies that no one would think to question.

The place they had rented for the week was a decently isolated vacation cabin. The autumn holidays were about to start, which meant that the peace and quiet wouldn't last for that much longer, but even that worked to their advantage. Hunter had planned to leave no evidence. Anything that might slip through the cracks … well, it another week, someone else would rent the cabin. Another month or two, and any trace of Hunter or Yassen himself would be long gone in an endless rotation of guests and cleaning.

The target was still floating on the edge of unconsciousness. He was duct taped to a metal lawn chair in the middle of the combined living room and kitchen, the sort of chair that Yassen knew from experience was both too large and too small at the same time, uncomfortable however way you sat in it, and heavy enough that the idea of moving it to a sunny spot was more effort than it was worth. The tape kept the man in place, enough to make any movement impossible, and any real attempt to escape would only result in ending up on the floor, still trapped by the solid chair.

Hunter had experience and the reminder now was stark and vivid. There had been no uncertainty in his actions. No pauses to consider or redo something. Just the same relentless and meticulous approach that had ensured Hunter's survival as a freelance assassin.

A camera rested on the kitchen counter in a perfect position to capture everything. Yassen had a notebook in his hand as well for any necessary drawings along with preliminary important notes.

A hard slap knocked the man's head to the side and tore him into full consciousness.

To his credit, their target grasped the situation almost immediately. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes as memories flooded back, the realisation that he was in an unfamiliar place, restrained and in the company of two unknown people -

\- and his expression hardened as he kept his mouth shut and didn't make any of the demands Yassen might have expected.

_Who are you? Where am I? What do you want?_

"Excellent," Hunter said. "Someone trained you. Not Three, you're definitely too expendable for that kind of effort, but you're not a completely lost cause. Cossack needs the lesson and I'm a little rusty. It'll be good with a stubborn test subject. Someone expendable to practice on."

The target's expression darkened. There was fear under the surface but mostly there was anger; the arrogance of someone whose situation had not yet registered or who trusted too much in backup that would not arrive.

" _SCORPIA will murder you for this."_ The target didn't bother to answer in English but stuck to his native German. It made no difference to Yassen or Hunter.

"SCORPIA tried," Hunter said and made it sound so condescending that even Yassen would have wanted to punch him for it. "You boss decided to target my family. My wife slaughtered the assault team sent to kidnap her and the kids. I know it would have been inconvenient to capture one alive, but it's left me with no one to make an example of. So I'm going to squeeze you for intel, work my way up, and make a  _proper_  example of your boss and anyone else even remotely involved with that kind of idiocy. If I get enough useful intel out of you, maybe I'll find another cockroach to practice on instead."

Perhaps the lower-level employees did not know the full details of it all, perhaps they had been given another story entirely, but Hunter's words didn't seem like a complete surprise. Nor did the situation, which did indicate that Hunter was right in his assumption that their target had a degree of training in resistance to interrogation.

The man didn't rise to that bit of obvious bait, at least. Hunter didn't look like he had expected him to, either. Just brought out the hammer and grabbed a handful of nails from the cardboard box.

"Proper incentive," he said and spread them out on the counter. "For every question you won't answer to my satisfaction, or every answer I don't believe, I'm going to hammer one of these into you. If you're lucky, it'll be a small one. If not, well, I'm sure you can imagine the result."

The box had been an assortment, Yassen knew, the sort of thing intended for small projects at home. The smallest of the nails on the counter was only a few centimetres long, barely larger than a drawing pin. The biggest was five or six time that size and Yassen could vividly imagine the damage that could do.

The target was silent, eyes locked on the counter. Hunter didn't move, hammer still resting loosely in his grip. Finally the man's attention drifted back to Hunter.

"We'll start easy," Hunter said. "Name, former rank, work responsibilities. We'll take it from there. Agreed?"

The silence stretched on. When the target still didn't speak, Hunter's hand drifted to the counter and picked a nail at random. The sound of metal against metal was louder than it should have been in the silence, an ominous scrape against stone, and the target flinched. Slightly, but just enough.

"Agreed," he said in accented English this time, and Yassen settled down to write.

* * *

Half an hour later, the notebook was full of a number of pages of handwriting; important points along with meticulous diagrams that Yassen had added as the interrogation progressed. Some would turn out to be useless. A lot of it would not.

Assuming, of course, that their target had been truthful.

Yassen gave the book to Hunter. He made a low, thoughtful sound as he flipped through the pages, slow and considering. The sound mingled with their target's breaths, harsh and unsteady, and filled up the silence like a physical thing. The man had needed – encouragement at times. Not as much as Yassen had expected but … his willingness to cooperate had not been a constant thing.

"You've been very helpful," Hunter finally said. He sounded pleasantly surprised. It wasn't the Hunter that Yassen knew but the memories of Three's textbooks on interrogation. Not merely physical means but the psychological aspect, too. The many ways to unsettle a target.

Was this what it took to survive as a freelance operative at Hunter's level? The man had never brought up the subject with Yassen but now he couldn't help but wonder. This was revenge. But perhaps, with Hunter's usual sense of practicality, it was also a lesson for Yassen. Not the punishment and manipulation of Paris so long ago but simple cold, calculated necessity.

The target didn't answer. Just took a shuddering breath and remained silent.

Hunter patted the notebook and leaned forward a little. "Now, in the interest of making sure we wrote all of this down accurately, tell me the security measures again. In reverse order this time, access codes included."

The target looked up. Something is his eyes was – no longer the pained haze of before, but something sharp. Clear.

_Terrified._

The sinking sensation of a lock snapping shut or the click of a landmine, and Hunter smiled.

Kindly.

In that moment, Yassen saw the echo of Three, the deliberate mimicry of the sadist's delight in playing with a particularly entertaining toy. It was a careful act, nothing more, but it still sent a chill down Yassen's spine at the reminder.

The target didn't respond and Hunter continued. The kind smile never once wavered, not even when as he slowly spun a small, sharp nail between his fingers.

"I think that you've been lying to me. If not, you should have no trouble at all repeating what you told me. Let's try this again. Honesty is good for the soul. For every answer that doesn't match what you already told me, another nail goes in, and this time I won't aim for reasonably harmless spots. We'll start, I think, with the underside of your right foot. Doctor Three's most recent work on the human nervous system is quite possibly his best yet. I don't have Malagosto's resources available here but I can still play 'pin the nail in the nerve'. I might miss the first few times but that's why practical experience is so very valuable. Maybe we'll take an extra look at the bigger nerves so I can add my own notes. Unless, of course, you would like to admit you've been lying and would like to try again."

Silence. The target's eyes flickered to Yassen for a moment, wide and panicked, but Yassen kept his expression as emotionless as it had been since the start of this. The target was only the first of several. If Yassen couldn't handle this, did he have anything to do as a freelance operative at all?

Hunter clicked his tongue once, sharp and annoyed, and the target's attention snapped back to him.

"An example it is, then."

There was no warning. Hunter kicked the chair hard and the target fell backwards, head slamming into the plastic-covered rug. It had to have hurt, and the startled half-scream agreed with that, but before Yassen or the target could find their bearings again, Hunter had the hammer back in hand.

Strong fingers gripped the target's right foot and found a spot somewhere in the middle of it with practised ease. The target tried to kick, got nowhere with the amount of duct tape restraining him, and Hunter ignored it. Just tightened his hold, steadied the nail, and -

" _NO!"_

\- he paused, hammer poised to strike.

"… security -," The target took a shuddering breath, eyes closed as he looked like he tried to focus, "- the last bit of security in the office is the code with the fingerprint scanner right before it. I don't know the code and only two people are authorised -"

The target spoke, stumbling and hesitant at first and then growing stronger and steadier.

And Hunter smiled.

* * *

"I want this corroborated by at least one more source," Hunter said when the interrogation was done and the notebook a number of full pages richer.

The target was dead, the body wrapped in plastic and ready to be disposed of, and Yassen … wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself.

"I'm pretty sure I got the truth out of him but it doesn't hurt to be sure. Most people will say whatever the interrogator wants to hear by the end of it to make it stop. You can do your best to keep an eye out for any inconsistencies or tendencies to tell you what you want to hear, but it's not the most reliable way to get intel. Sometimes it's the only one you've got available to you but that doesn't necessarily make it an accurate one."

The teacher again. Hunter had never stopped with that role and Yassen doubted he ever really would. He still had ten years of military training and experience on Yassen, including his years with MI6, and while Yassen did not like to admit it, he still had things to learn and Hunter taught them well. He had been welcomed as a teacher at Malagosto for a reason.

His lesson echoed what Yassen remembered from his textbooks at Malagosto; theory to Hunter's practicality but no less harsh.

Yassen didn't respond. Just nodded. Another target, possibly more. However many it took to get the information they needed until the risks outweighed the benefit.

Hunter had every reason in the world to do a thorough job. His reputation, Yassen expected, was about to grow again.

It was easy to mimic a sudden decision to run when it didn't have to stand up to close scrutiny. To an average surveillance camera, all it took to appear legitimate enough to pass for someone else was the target's clothes and a body shape and language that matched well enough. Hunter had the bulk and height for it, the target's account information had been easy – just another few bits of information gained from the interrogation – and a carefully chosen ATM in Zurich late at night did the rest. Close to the target's home but a little shielded from traffic, just the sort of place a careful person might go to withdraw all their funds and vanish. It was bound to draw suspicion no matter what but … perhaps it would be enough to cause some degree of reasonable doubt.

By dawn, the body had been disposed of, any evidence had been burned, and the small stack of cash had vanished into Hunter's bag.

They would rest. Sleep. And then they would find a new source of intel.

* * *

They moved faster with the second target. They had more solid information about schedules and personnel this time and increased incentive to act before they lost the element of surprise. The target usually had the weekend shift which meant that when Hunter and Yassen struck on Wednesday evening, the man was just about to have two days off. There was always the risk that the man had switched things up at the last moment or that schedules had been reshuffled with the disappearance of their first target but it was a risk they would have to take. It would be just another question to ask the target.

With two days before the man was expected back at work, they would have time to verify and use the intel they gained. It did not mean that Hunter was any less efficient in his methods.

There was a bathtub in the cabin, small enough that Yassen suspected its only real purpose was to be mentioned in the advert, but still useful for their purposes.

Their second target went from slowly lifting drug-induced haze to the stark shock of icy water. Hunter was not a small man and had little care for the condition of their target. He simply dropped the man – thoroughly bound in duct tape – on the floor, pulled him halfway over the side of the filled tub, and plunged his head underwater.

The reaction to the cold was instant, the instinctive inhalation followed by raw panic as water took over where the body expected air. Hunter's grip tightened, one knee pressed into the man's spine to keep him better controlled. The target thrashed; immediate, blind terror and desperation as primal fear and survival took over but got nowhere as Hunter kept him firmly underwater. Yassen knew the reaction in detail from Malagosto; graphic descriptions and some of the many videos from the class. This was his first experience with it in practice, though it was clearly not the first time Hunter used the method.

Hunter pulled the target back up. Threw him face-down on the plastic-covered tiles and watched with clinical detachment as the man took deep, laboured gasps of air that turned into body-wrenching coughs.

Finally the coughing slowed. Yassen didn't move but Hunter grabbed the hammer before he took a step closer and forced the target onto his back with a hard kick. The man's eyes were red but focused and while his breathing was still laboured and interrupted by coughing, he seemed like he could at least focus on more than the sense of drowning.

"You're coherent again. Excellent. Here are the ground rules: breathing is a privilege. Annoy me and you go back into that tub. I am going to ask you a number of questions. I know the answers to them already. You're just the verification. If you lie, I will crush one of your joints, starting with your left knee. I don't need you alive. If you croak, I'll just go find one of the other cockroaches scurrying around to wring for information."

The man spat something in a language Yassen didn't know and he doubted Hunter did, either. It sounded Eastern European of some sort but the tone of voice made the meaning perfectly clear.

_Fuck you._

Hunter moved with no hesitation. The hammer came down, half a kilo of metal and momentum against comparatively fragile bone -

\- and the target  _screamed._

It was a world removed from Three's patient, clinical approach. It was also, Yassen acknowledged, every bit as efficient in the right hands.

* * *

The target broke in the end. It was no surprise to Yassen. The man had undoubtedly known he was dead the moment they had the information they wanted but when the alternative was endless hours of pain as Hunter meticulously crushed one joint after the other … Yassen knew what he would have chosen, too. Even anger and spite only lasted for so long in the face of torture.

"Most of the answers match," Hunter said. "Enough that I think we can trust it to be accurate for now. The additions questions … we don't have anything to compare them with but I'd be inclined to say that they were truthful, too."

That, too, was expected. Yassen had kept track in the notebook, and beyond the natural, slight variations in the answers, their two targets had agreed on most of the important security issues.

"Further verification, then?" Yassen asked.

"Yeah. It'll be risky but not as risky as acting solely on what we have right now." Hunter seemed to consider it as he flipped through the notebook again. "We need to move fast but I think someone close to Kraus should be able to get us the intel we're missing and confirm what we already have. We've got enough to target one of his more trusted people."

It was late Wednesday evening. Their second target wasn't expected back at work until Saturday morning. They would need to strike by Friday, then, if they wanted to get to their third target before suspicions began to grow strong enough to become a problem. Preferably Thursday evening if at all possible, though Yassen knew that was pushing it even for them. The time constraint was less than welcome but Yassen had handled worse. It was not an optimal situation but sometimes it was the only way to make it work.

Yassen's attention drifted to the floor. The body had already been wrapped in dark plastic and deposited in the van for disposal but the plastic sheeting had not yet been removed and burned, and the slowly drying blood on it was dark and obvious against the lightness of the rug.

Just how often had Hunter been hired for such work? Yassen didn't ask. The ease with which Hunter had acted implied that perhaps it was somewhat more frequently than Yassen had believed. Perhaps he hadn't been hired often for jobs that were solely about interrogation but that didn't rule out the possibility that those skills were useful for other jobs.

SCORPIA had torture experts. Three was the most well-known example but Yassen was familiar with several field specialists as well. All well-paid to his knowledge. All kept quite busy. And perhaps there were clients who preferred an independent expert rather than one employed by an actual organisation and who would be likely to bring any useful intelligence back with them.

Yassen hadn't thought about Paris and Vosque in years. Now it was hard not to.

Something must have shown because Hunter's attention turned to him.

"Yassen?" Concern, faint but genuine. In any other situation, Yassen might have bristled at the insinuation that he couldn't handle the job. Now, with the memories of Hunter as he had been in Paris, cold and ruthless and manipulative against the genuine concern now … Yassen found that he didn't actually mind.

"It's nothing," he said and wasn't surprised to find that it was the truth.

It was not the sort of work he wanted to do. It was not the sort of business he wished to deal in. But for Alex and Matilda and Helen, he would do it.

It would be educational. For himself and SCORPIA both.


	11. Part XI: Zurich (II)

The Zurich station was not a large one. It handled mainly intelligence and white-collar crimes and lived a mostly-quiet existence in the shadow of Julia Rothman's much larger Venice operation. It was luck alone that meant the information about Helen and the kids had ended up in Zurich and in the process given them the chance to escape. It also meant that while an attack on the place wouldn't be  _easy_ , it was also not impossible for two trained people with inside information on security, layout, and procedures.

It was a secure building but still had to work under the same constraints as John and Helen had in Geneva: The desire to be safe but without the risk of the unwanted attention a fortress would bring.

From the outside, it was an unremarkable place; a glass and greenish-grey utilitarian block that could have been designed by a particularly unimaginative architecture student with a love for filing cabinets. Entirely bland and boring, which was just the way SCORPIA wanted it.

Surveillance and John's interrogation notes all agreed that security was at its lowest at night. The building was never empty – and for a security company, that wasn't something that would ever raise any questions – but in the middle of the night it was populated only by a skeleton crew. Security staff and a junior agent, someone to keep up with anything that might happen elsewhere during the night and have a briefing ready for the bosses by morning, but that was it.

Seven people according to their intel. Eight at the most. The Zurich station was small and SCORPIA focused on profits. Intel didn't generally just drop into someone's lap, all ready to use. Kraus had his people in the field because that was what he paid them for. Intel and assorted other jobs, including the actual security part of things that kept up appearances and even turned a decent profit. There were people working with the administrative part of it, too, but the majority was practical work.

John wanted every last person on that night shift dead. He didn't particularly care who they were but more about the message it would send, and the complete massacre of an intelligence station – even a small one – was a statement worth the risk.

There was Kraus, too, of course. Kraus and his immediate subordinates, and anyone else trusted enough to be counted within his inner circle. John wanted those people dead as well. It wouldn't be possible and he knew it, but the thought was nice. Time, opportunity, and the fact that they were only two people meant that John's list was significantly shorter than it had first been, and he could accept that. Even if he would prefer to burn everything to the ground.

Interrogation and their own contacts had given them what they needed. Most of the basic intel was public knowledge. It was one small station with the cover of a legitimate business and there had even been a minor article in a local newspaper about them. All it took to find the relevant addresses was a check in a public database.

There were six potential targets on John's list but he only planned to go after two or three of them. Enough to make it obvious it was about revenge and just as obvious that he had not gone after the intel that Kraus had. It was a careful balance and John hoped he had it right.

It did leave them with one glaring issue. Take out the station first and someone might manage to alert upper management before John and Yassen finished the job. Take out leadership first and it would be very likely that the junior agent or security guards would pick up on the inevitable police activity and put the station on high alert.

Yassen's approach to that was pragmatic and maybe John should have expected it.

"We split up," he said. "Give me the station. I am closest in appearance to our target. If I am spotted on camera, they will be likely to ignore me. If we coordinate things, you will be able to take out several of the other targets before anyone realises what is happening."

There was no false bravado. Just calm, quiet confidence in his own skills. A part of John wanted to argue, because Yassen was  _young_ and for all that he would need the sort of reputation that brutal, bloody retribution gave, it did not mean he had to do it  _alone -_

\- and then John stopped himself.

Yassen was twenty-seven. John had been in the Paras for years by then, he had been a Falklands War veteran by twenty-five and while Yassen might still in some ways be the student, he was not a child.

Yassen had never to John's knowledge handled that sort of direct assault as part of his job. John was the former soldier, not Yassen. Yassen was in many ways a ghost to the intelligence world and that was what clients paid him so well for. The assassinations that required someone able to move unseen and unnoticed and to escape without a trace. That did not mean that he wasn't capable of whole-scale slaughter and John had even flat-out told him he would need to cultivate that sort of reputation, too. Maybe he wouldn't need to do it alone now … but sometimes soon he might, when John retired and Yassen was on his own, and Yassen just as obviously knew it. Like Yassen's first few independent jobs, John would be there to help with plans and be possible backup if anything happened, but the job itself would be Yassen's to do.

If Yassen felt confident it could be done, John wouldn't argue. Yassen wasn't his apprentice any more and hadn't been for years. The final say was not longer John's.

"I want one more target to squeeze for intel first," he said and conceded the point. He wanted that added insurance. A third source to confirm what they knew. They had time. Not much but … enough.

Yassen didn't hesitate. He glanced at their notes but John knew it was habit and quick confirmation more than anything. Yassen's memory was exceptional. "Zahner? His shift ends Friday morning."

That would have been John's first choice, too, and he nodded. "It'll be a bit of a tight schedule but doable. I want to be sure."

And if Yassen got another lesson in field interrogation, well, that was just an added bonus. Zahner was higher in the ranks than their first two targets. That intel would be all the more valuable with Yassen on his own.

Yassen didn't argue. Just nodded.

Time was almost up. When their second target failed to show up for work, it would raise suspicions that couldn't be redirected by pretending the man had left. Whatever they chose to do, there was a definite deadline now.

They still had a few preparations to handle. Sleep as well. Then their third target and whatever last bits of intel they could squeeze from him.

It was not anxiety in John's mind but the slow, steady sense of determination and inevitability. He had made his move. It was time to see if he had done it well enough.

* * *

The first time Yassen had watched Hunter at work with interrogation had been – perhaps not a lesson Yassen had wanted but a useful one nonetheless. The second had been easier to distract from. To focus on what they needed, on the information their mission would depend on, and allow everything else to be a secondary concern.

The third time, Yassen made himself focus. Not on the technique or words but on body language. On the slight tells that Hunter had learned to spot somehow between everything else; the slight signs that perhaps their target was not entirely truthful.

All three of their targets had been different in their reactions. It was likely they had training to some degree but not to the level that SCORPIA expected of her assassins. Theory more likely than not. Perhaps a brief course on practical resistance to interrogation. Nothing that would have prepared them for the reality of it.

Dr Three's lesson, so long ago at Malagosto, had been demonstrated on a trained intelligence agent. Someone who had known the situation he could face undercover if all went wrong and his response had been accordingly. Silence. Stubbornness. The constant search for an escape. Then the lies, the pleading, the skilful attempts to make himself appear broken – to perhaps not escape but to trick the doctor into killing him before any actual information was wrung from his body.

The truth, by the end of it. The truth mixed with desperate lies, anything the doctor might have wanted to hear, anything to make it  _stop -_

Yassen had not slept well that night. It was not something that bothered his rest these days but the memory still stuck with him now as he watched Hunter work.

It took longer than their first two targets, far longer than Yassen would have wished to watch it for, but nowhere near what Three's lesson had become.

Yassen wrote as the target spoke. Fast and precise lines to make sense of the broken, jumbled mix of German and English that Hunter had wrong from the man.

Only when Hunter had fired a single shot and the target was still did Yassen speak.

"How do you know their fears?"

Hunter had seemed confident in everything. He always did. It was an act to some degree, the reputation he could not afford to lose, but a large part of it was simply skill. Yassen had asked no questions of Dr Three. No one had. Merely listened and taken notes as expected. This was not a lesson Yassen particularly cared for but a part of him could also acknowledge the necessity. The potential jobs in the future where such methods might be needed.

"I don't." Blunt and honest, like all of Hunter's explanations. "I've got limited time and resources. It makes it a little harder but not impossible. Talk. Try different approaches. Watch their reactions. If they give anything away, use it. You make it work somehow because sometimes there's no alternative."

Yassen didn't speak but just considered the answer. It was no real surprise. Adaptability, which Hunter always stressed. Observation skills. A methodical, relentless approach.

"You don't have to like it," Hunter said when the silence continued, "frankly, I'd prefer if you didn't, but it's also something you might need one day. And if that's the case, it'll go faster and easier for everyone if you know what you're doing."

_Faster and easier._  The target would still be dead but something about that mattered.

Dr Three was a sadist. His books on the subject were graphic and thoroughly researched. He enjoyed the torture and the opportunity to see how long he could prolong the suffering and he had skill and experience on his side.

Hunter's only goal was information. Even now, it was not personal. Hunter wanted answers, nothing more.

It was not a task Yassen ever wished to carry out himself but something about that approach made just enough of a difference.

Yassen did not answer. Just nodded slowly and spoke again.

"Tonight, then?"

Hunter undoubtedly knew but allowed him to change the subject.

"Tonight." Hunter hesitated for just a second. Then continued in silent concession to Yassen's own skill. "The station is yours. I'll go for Kraus first and his other assistant second. I'll stay by Kraus' home until we're ready. I want to make sure he's there."

Their two primary targets. Kraus and the station. Yassen nodded again. The forecast showed nothing but rain that evening and through the night; chilly and wet and persistent. Hunter's hours of surveillance would not be pleasant.

It did not matter. They had a job to do.

* * *

The industrial part of Zurich was never entirely quiet. Most of the employees were home as they should be, safely asleep and well out of the way, but the world still kept moving. Deliveries, security, the occasional late-night maintenance for those businesses where any disturbance during work hours was unacceptable. Even well into the late hours of Friday night, the world still kept moving.

It was no issue. Yassen easily stayed out of sight. They had considered other approaches – the roof was an option – but those, in the end, carried risks of their own. Their target building was as secure as it could reasonably be but was, in the end, only as secure as the weakest part of the system. The human factor was always the most vulnerable spot and now the human factor was compromised.

Employee access required a personal code that regularly changed and a fingerprint scan. The outside surveillance cameras were always watched by at least one guard as well, and the while the main entrance looked like the average, practical sort of thing, it still required someone to get through two sets of ballistic glass doors if trouble arrived from that direction. It could have gone further – systems set up to only accept access during planned shift hours, additional human confirmation of identity before someone was allowed inside, any number of other security measures – but the Zurich station was a small one. It lived mostly out of sight and even now, even with the threat of Hunter hanging over their heads, additional security measures were bothersome. Shifts changed regularly based on necessity, sometimes with little notice, and while security was on high alert during business hours when the outside saw traffic, the night shift was quiet and monotonous.

Zurich station had no reason to expect an attack in the middle of the night. Not when Hunter's obvious first target would be the station chief, soundly asleep in his own bed at that time of the night.

Their second interrogation victim – the man whose identification, fingerprints, and jacket Yassen now carried – was supposed to return from his two days off at six that morning. Yassen approached the back entrance four hours before that. Someone would presumably watch the cameras but all they would see would be one of the regular staff arriving early and that was not unusual. Sometimes shifts changed. Sometimes there were things that needed to be done. Yassen had the approximately right body shape, and the jacket with body armour and weapons underneath added the bit of extra bulk he needed. His hair was dyed brown and his fingers moved fast and confident when he typed his code and let the scanner do its work.

It was two in the morning. The world was dark and cold and damp from rain, and at a glance the cameras would show nothing out of the ordinary. There was always the risk that whoever was on duty would be suspicious and demand verification but Yassen and Hunter had stacked the deck in their favour.

The door opened without a pause. Yassen stepped inside.

Interrogation had given them a good idea of the layout of the building. The blueprints had been available but unsurprisingly they had been lacking at best and inaccurate at worst. They had a good idea of the number of people present and the rooms to target. It was not a  _safe_  approach in any way but Yassen was confident enough to risk it.

The security control room first, to take out any risk that someone would spot the attack on camera. Then the rest of the place.

Yassen unzipped his jacket as he continued down the hallway. Casual. Confident. Like he belonged there.

Cossack reached for his gun.

* * *

Patrick Kraus lived alone in a reasonably remote house outside of Zurich. Like John himself had done, he had obviously considered the need for privacy against the need to appear perfectly normal. Kraus was an average businessman, married to his career and business rather than any human partnership, and his home reflected that. New and well-kept, with an expensive car and a yard that was just as obviously cared for by someone other than him.

'New' undoubtedly meant ballistic windows and reinforced doors. 'New' meant constructed to fit Kraus' security needs rather than having it retrofit, which in turn meant fewer potential blind spots and other vulnerabilities. It was an exceptionally secure home and all but impossible to gain access to.

Fortunately for John, he had no intentions of ever actually setting foot on that property, much less try to get inside.

He had told Yassen 'no massive property destruction'. Like most things, that plan had changed in the face of necessity. John had known the moment he had seen Kraus' home that their approach would need to be adapted.

The sort of weapon he would need had cost extra – a lot extra – on such short notice but John didn't particularly care. The Milkor MGL was lightweight, reliable, versatile, thoroughly field-tested and came with the option of high-explosive rounds. It fit in a large duffel bag, no different from any other gym bag, and that was how John carried it.

He didn't need to find the perfect sniper spot. He didn't need to be subtle. It just had to work. Hunter intended to send a message, and a grenade launcher was just the tool for that.

John had watched the house from the early evening. He had stayed unmoving, dressed in warm camouflage clothes as the rain started, steady and relentless, and night crept closer.

It was not a comfortable place. He was sheltered by pine trees with everything that implied – needles and resin and rough tree trunks – and while his clothes were meant to handle the weather, the exposed parts of him were long since soaked.

It was nothing he hadn't survived before.

John caught several glimpses of his target through the windows along with what looked like a perfectly average if somewhat expensive house. The car was safely parked in a locked garage and while the entire place was clearly made to look nothing out of the ordinary, security still showed to someone used to it.

The garden was well-kept but offered no hiding places. There were no angles or blind spots to allow an attacker close; no easy, unseen approach. There was security inside as well – two males that John had spotted through the windows as well that both had the slight tells of SCORPIA's people. He doubted that was a normal arrangement but Kraus knew the added danger. John was not surprised that he had added guards to his home.

It was no matter.

Night fell and Hunter waited. The lights went out well past midnight. The ground floor first, though at least one of the guards was undoubtedly still awake to keep an eye on surveillance. Then on the second floor, the one John had been waiting for. The most probable place for a bedroom.

The house remained where it was, dark and utterly devoid of life, and still Hunter waited.

It was two in the morning when he finally moved. In Zurich, Yassen would enter the station itself. Well outside of the city, Hunter brought out the MGL. Checked that it was properly loaded and ready, slipped in his earplugs, and opened the duffel bag with the rest of the ammunition. Then he got up.

John could feel it in his body; the hours unmoving in wet, chilly weather, but adrenaline brushed it aside, and Hunter raised his weapon.

He had no way to know Kraus' exact location. He didn't need to, either.

The first grenade took out the ballistic glass; the second exploded in the room. A slight shift of his aim turned his attention to the ground floor – still no light, the first two shots had happened to fast – and then he fired again.

The kitchen window, two more grenades that exploded deep within the house, and the sixth and final shot targeted the front door.

Hunter slipped back behind his shelter, fingers already moving in a familiar dance. Rewind, reload, close, lock -

There was light on somewhere on the ground floor now – John suspected the living room – and he targeted that next. Four more grenades, high-explosive, one after the other hammering into the house within seconds of each other. The last two targeted the garage; not enough to destroy the car inside but enough to wreck any attempt to get it out of there easily.

_\- Rewind, reload, close, lock -_

No lights on in what he suspected was the bedroom but that didn't stop him. The third barrage was split evenly between the two floors; three rounds to hopefully ensure that Kraus was  _dead_ , then another three for the ground floor as Hunter started on his secondary goal.

There was only so much damage any building could take. Kraus' home was intended to be secure from people who wanted him alive enough to interrogate or send a message. It was not intended to stand up to full-scale demolition.

_\- Rewind, reload, close, lock -_

The lights were gone, power taken out by one of the explosions. There were flames and billowing smoke now, dust and debris and  _death_ , and Hunter continued.

Swift, meticulous, and relentless. Six rounds -

_\- Rewind, reload, close, **lock** -_

\- Another six explosions, and the building  _groaned._

John lowered the MGL. Pulled out the earplugs and watched as the entire east wall of the house crumbled in slow motion and pulled the upper floor down with it – and, like a line of domino pieces, the cascade that followed as the rest of the building simply collapsed.

Fire and embers exploded into the night sky, followed by thick smoke. John could feel it in his lungs, the smell of burning wood and insulation and plastic, and the heat of the flames on his exposed skin even from that distance.

If anyone had survived the assault, the collapse would have finished the job.

Hunter packed away the MGL. Then he left, his mind already on their next step.

* * *

Yassen moved through the hallways like he belonged there. He had memorised the layout – corroborated by all three of their sources – and knew exactly where to go.

Down one floor, into the basement, access card and fingerprint scanner – disguised as the entrance to a storage room, away from curious eyes, away from  _questions_  – and the solid door slid open.

The wall of screens, the muted light of the room, the single individual in a chair all registered in Yassen's mind in an instant. Surroundings, threats,  _target -_

The guard looked up. Yassen fired his gun before the man had time to realise that his visitor was not the colleague he expected. It was loud even with a suppressor but in the basement level, with a heavy door meant to keep the room safe – it was perhaps still muted enough not to draw attention.

Yassen moved fast. First to the large displays, an intricate puzzle of screens in black and white of the building interior and the world outside. He ignored the dead body in the chair and focused on the screens instead.

One person at work in one of the offices, another in what looked like a printer room. Two guards in what looked like the break room. Another two guards at the main entrance. Six, then. Seven including the dead guard, which was what they had expected based on the intel they had retrieved. None of them seemed alarmed, either. Simply carried on.

The schedule was on the desk and Yassen briefly looked it over. The names meant little to him but the number matched. That was all he needed.

He memorised the numbers above the appropriate screens and watched just long enough to see the worker in the printer room return to an office instead. Then he moved again.

The guards at the main entrance first – on duty and the most likely people to pay attention to anything unusual, but still perhaps not as diligent as they should be. They had access to surveillance as well but counted on the central surveillance room to be the primary warning. Their focus was the main entrance which made Yassen's task significantly easier.

Back up one floor, close the door, switch guns, down the hallway -

According to the cameras, there was no one else on the ground level, but Yassen did not care to linger.

Past empty offices and a dark meeting room behind glass walls; bright hallways but all the silence of a business after hours.

Perhaps internal security could have been better. Perhaps they could have relied on more than access cards and fingerprints. But then, Yassen had used the identity of one of their security personnel. That alone would have bypassed most of it.

The entrance to the reception area was ballistic glass that opened up to a perfectly average sort of place; all glass and wood and black leather chairs in an open room. The reception desk was armoured as well, expensive wood hiding the solid metal underneath. It would have been the perfect shelter in case of an outside attack but did nothing now when the attacker came from within the building itself.

Access card, scan -

The door slid open with just a whisper of sound but the movement still caught the attention of the two guards.

Yassen had risked the sounds of a gunshot in the primary security room. Now, in the middle of the building itself, something that loud was – unwanted. He needed that element of surprise. The gun in his hand now was a PSS, Soviet designed and produced for assassinations, completely useless beyond fifty meters of range, but effectively silent.

It was not a weapon he was particularly familiar with. It was not a weapon he  _liked._  But for this sort of situation, it was necessary.

Like Yassen's first target of the attack, the two guards were unprepared. Warned, perhaps, that the company was under threat but clearly not to the point where they expected an attack of that sort.

Two bullets, so close together that there was no time for the guards to react, and Yassen was already moving again. Break room next, to target the remaining two guards.

He checked the gun automatically, the motions familiar and reassuring. It felt – wrong, the PSS. He had been eight years old the first time he fired a gun and had lost count of the types he had tried but this was the only model he had used that was so quiet it was effectively silent. He had used it a few times before – it was hardly cheap to procure and useless for all but highly specialised work – but that made the lack of sound no less  _wrong._  The part of him that associated guns with  _noise_  and was unsettled when faced with one that went against it.

Yassen pushed the thought aside. It didn't matter. There was only his task right now. Two floors up – stairs, not elevator – and Yassen heard the low murmur of voices before he even reached the door. The building was utterly silent. Sound carried in a way it did not in daylight.

Nothing in that murmur sounded alarmed. It was the low background noise of idle talk, not of someone who had realised they were under attack.

Surveillance had shown a room that was mostly tables and two couches, with a kitchenette towards one wall. The two guards had settled in the couch furthest from the door and Yassen did not expect them to have moved. Not with their coffee cups still mostly full and a plate of sandwiches on the small table.

Yassen opened the door. Fast enough to have the element of surprise but not so loud that it would draw attention.

It took a second to confirm that his targets were still where he expected; another second to fire the first bullet. The second guard started to move, surprise on his face; mouth half-open and probably about to raise the alarm -

\- And Yassen fired again.

The guard collapsed. The sound of the coffee cups that were swept off the table and shattered was louder than the gun had been; a shock in the silence.

Then there was nothing but stillness and Yassen's own breathing in his ears. He stayed unmoving just inside the room and listened for anything out of the ordinary. Any sound of movement. Of footsteps. Any sign at all that someone had paid attention.

But it hadn't been the sound of a gun or someone shouting at an intruder; it had been the sound of shattered coffee mugs from the break room and – accidents happened.

The seconds dragged on. The silence remained unbroken. Finally Yassen continued.

Two office workers, presumably intelligence agents of some sort. Another time of the day or in another, larger station, it might have been trained operatives or assassins out of the field. But not somewhere as small as SCORPIA's presence in Zurich. Not at this time of night.

One office on the same floor he was one; one below. Yassen went for the closest one. Down the hallway, near the end of it according to the number on the surveillance screen -

\- And up ahead, a figure appeared from an office.

Yassen fired before he had even made the conscious decision; instincts and experience responding in an instant. The figure – male, dressed like one of the remaining two targets Yassen had seen – was still within the effective of the PSS and crumbled to the floor a second later.

Six.

Yassen took a slow breath and focused on the sudden rush of adrenaline, of  _danger_  and  _unexpected_  and  _threat._ Embraced that instinctive surge of fear and let go of it again. Every job was a bit easier. Every unexpected development easier to handle. Experience still did not completely erase those deep, primitive parts of his mind that responded to dangerous situations with a very sensible demand to  _get out of there._

One target left.

Yassen resisted the urge to switch back to his normal gun. If surveillance and intel had missed anyone, the sound of a gunshot would alert them. The temptation still remained, though. The desire to have a proper weapon in his hand. Something with range.

One floor down, an office near the middle of the building and -

\- It was almost disappointingly easy.

His target was still in that same office, still bent over a report, and did not even have time to look up before Yassen fired the sixth and final bullet. Yassen lowered the PSS. Brought out a far more familiar Glock instead; the fit with his hand like it was moulded for it.

The building was silent. Not even the target's computer had been on; the night used to catch up on old paperwork instead. Somewhere, there as a low hum of ventilation systems. Nothing else.

In any other case, Yassen would have taken steps to remove any evidence of his presence from surveillance. Not now. Not when this was intended as a message for SCORPIA and proof of his own competence.

Yassen left through the front door. The door opened obediently. There was no one alive to sound the alarm. No one to stop him.

Seventeen minutes from he arrived, Yassen stepped outside again. He would dispose of the evidence on the way. For now, he headed down the street, rounded a corner, and vanished into Zurich.

* * *

John's second stop for the evening would be no less destructive. It was the last entry on their final list. Intel and time constraints had put natural limits on what they could get away with but John still considered it an acceptable message. It was a careful balance between too cautious and dangerously risky and they could not afford to get it wrong.

Like Kraus, the target lived alone in a reasonably remote house well outside of Zurich, its owner too tangled up in SCORPIA business to want the attention an apartment or a house with neighbours might bring. On one hand this made it easier to avoid questions about security and unusual work hours. On the other, it gave John free rein to be less discriminate in his methods, just like it had with the man's boss.

Patrick Kraus had been sensible enough to have the security expected of his position, for all the good that had done him. Some of his more influential underlings were less cautious – or, more likely, had weighed the risks against the cost of that kind of security and compromised. Kraus was the natural target of Hunter's annoyance; the rest of his people less so.

The house John arrived at was secure enough that breaking in unnoticed would have been hard on such short notice. Even the garage was soundly locked and far more secure than one might normally expect. It was just another entry on John's mental check-list. It wouldn't do to make a mistake with their targets. The name and the address would have been enough on its own and the unusual security, the hidden cameras and a garden devoid of anything big enough to leave a hiding spot just confirmed what they already knew. Perhaps the house was empty for the night, but John doubted it. There had been no sign at all that the man planned anything but to return home.

They didn't have any idea of the internal layout of the place. They didn't know the man's routines. With the MGL and enough ammunition, it didn't matter. Kraus had been John's priority; the secondary target was simply unfortunate enough that John had ample ammunition to spare.

_Rewind, reload, close, lock._

John didn't bother with a hiding spot. Let the cameras see him, if anything in the rubble survived to identify him.

At Kraus' home, John had aimed for the bedroom first. Now, he didn't bother to try to guess where it might be. He just focused on the ground floor and fired. Front door, the sides of the garage, and then the load-bearing parts of the building.

Six grenades, fired as fast as he could aim and pull the trigger. It was a familiar dance by now. John didn't need to think, just let his fingers move of their own accord

_Rewind, reload, close, lock._

Aim. Six more grounds, and by now there were large holes and visible flames from the ground floor of the building. The electricity had been taken out in the second volley and sent the outdoor lights plunging into darkness. The only light now was the few street lights and the fire from the destruction.

_Rewind, reload, close, lock._

Six more grenades, just to be  _sure_ , and John lowered the MGL. It was just as well. Those six rounds had been the last he had brought with him.

Up ahead, the house remained standing but the entire ground floor was engulfed in flames and the walls bore massive holes. John doubted it would survive the fire. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and it would collapse.

Maybe the sole inhabitant of the house had survived. Maybe not. John would almost certainly find out eventually when the full scale of the attack was tallied up.

For now, he had evidence to get rid of and a rendezvous point with his name on it.

* * *

The Zurich police would be at the scene of John's first attack before he had even arrived at his second. By the time morning rolled around, the story had been picked up by the major Swiss news outlets, followed shortly after by several German ones.

It was a slow news day. Maybe it wouldn't have drawn any real attention on a normal day. Maybe it would. Two homes destroyed with grenades and the entire night staff of a security company murdered within the same time frame – the Swiss police, at least, would pay close attention to the situation.

By then, any evidence had been disposed of and John and Yassen were long since back in Bonn.

John had sent his message. The only thing he could do now was wait and see if he got it right.


End file.
